Battle for Earth
by Baseplate
Summary: Despite the failure of their first two raids, the Irkens have set out a third time to conquer the Earth: a threat greater than the Vortians, and the final planet to fall into the Empire's grasp. It's been fourteen years since Staff Sergeant Dib Membrane's first deployment against the alien menace. But even with his years of training, one Irken still manages to get under his skin.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

The Marine radio operator positioned himself behind the blackened and twisted frame of an HMMWV, plasma bolts striking the opposite end, scaring it with slag. He had his headset pressed tight to his ear as he yelled into the mic. "Any station, any station! This is Hammer One-Three in the clear, the Irkens hold everything east of I-95, my sector is going to fall within the hour. They're using electronic counter measures and jamming. We-" A light erupted somewhere behind him with a magnificent boom, the concussive shockwave sending him onto his gut with an oof. He scrambled to his feet and slammed his back to the destroyed vehicle, took a moment to catch his breath and started again, his voice shaky. "Forty percent company casualties, three combat outposts over run. Irkens tanks, battle mechs, and mechanized infantry in the perimeter. Our lines of communication are either jammed or compromised. We're out of options and attempting to conduct a tactical withdraw at the supplementary positions-"

"It's coming around! Everybody-"

Staff Sergeant Dib Membrane never finished his sentence. The Irken ND-II on the opposite end of the intersection did it for him.

Dib slammed onto his gut hard, sliding across the rain slick pavement as the office building less than fifty meters to his front erupted in a brilliant metallic explosion of blue electricity.

Shards of glass, concrete and twisted pieces of metal shot into the air and hailed down upon the blackened and twisted frames of HMMWVs and a pair of eight wheeled Stryker infantry combat vehicles, behind which Dibs squad had taken cover behind, what was left of it. A thick black cloud of smoke backlit by fire plumed across the intersection, driven by a strong wind.

With a sudden lurch, the eighty-ton battle tank rolled forward, 180mm rail system scanning the area menacingly, tracks grinding over bodies laying in the street- the tanks first victims- who'd been hit by the triple barrel heavy plasma cannon mounted to the top of the tank.

Dib wiped the sweat and tiny amount of blood from his eyes, cleared his throat and spoke through the mic as he pressed the headset to his ear.

"Hammer one-two, this is Viper, over?"

His voice had cracked. _Calm down. They just had to get the hell out of there. That was it._

But their exfiltration had gone to hell. No VTOL to swoop in, land on the rooftop and whisk them to safety.

Nothing.

And that tank wasn't operating alone. The rest of that platoon had to be near by, with dismounted forces from the DMOV-3 infantry fighting vehicles parked outside the gate.

"Hammer one-two, this is Viper, over?"

Where was the rest of the twelve man team? They had been right behind him, and the Lieutenant had been holding up in that doorway, which was now empty.

Dib planted his palms firmly to the ground and pushed himself up to his feet, he then darted to the back of the burning hulk of a Mercedes SUV, and suddenly raised his rifle, about to fire-

When he realized the squad sized force running down the alleyway were friendlies, easy to mistake due to the lack of sun hiding behind the dark clouds.

Heavy Weapons Sergeant Arkady Murov had already shouldered the FGM-148 Javelin antitank missile they had recovered from one of the dead infantrymen and was moving toward the street, about to put himself in a crouched position to get a bead on the enemy tank.

Dib rushed toward Arkady; never breaking cover, saying in the Irken native language, "Don't miss."

The Sergeant answered in English. "Right. But forget about the Irken, save that for when we need it."

Dib and his colleagues were United States Marines, fighting for their planet an their species survival, they would not be taken prisoner, there would be no diplomatic negotiation for their release, especially if the race invading their planet was manufactured for nothing but killing.

Hurrying farther along the wall, Dib found the Detachment Commander, Lieutenant Thomas McLeod, and the Assistant Detachment Commander, Chief Warrant Officer 3 Rico Vargas, speaking softly, McLeod was working his index finger over his pocket PC. Next to them were the teams two cammo guys, and farther back were the two engineers and assistant weapons sergeant, M8A2 assault rifles aimed as they covered the end of the alley. One of the two combat medics was positioned at the near side.

Somewhere in the distance voices lifted. The Irken dismounted mechanized infantry were drawing closer. And the drizzle was getting heavier, promising a downpour, Irkens made it a habit of bathing in paste before launching missions.

"Hey, Dib," the Lieutenant grunted. "Heard you on the radio, but I was on the Shadowfire with higher."

McLeod, a rugged faced man with more then fifteen years of service, smiled broadly.

"We have to fall back another half klick. Our friends across the street have pushed too far forward, and our bird can't get in here. She's already found a secure spot to land behind a garage near the old municipal airport."

"Couldn't be easy, eh?"

"Dib, we're United States Marines, in the middle of a full blown warzone. Operational Detachment Alpha. The entire planet is at war. Damn. If you wanted easy, you should've-"

"My sister's in the Air Force."

"I was going to say the circus."

"We got one right here. What the hell happened? They were waiting for us."

McLeod and Vargas just shrugged.

Dib swore under his breath "Let's move."

As team Sergeant, Dib was responsible for the fighting men during combat situations, which freed up McLeod and Vargas to maintain close contact with their Company Commander and coordinate team movements within larger battle plans.

At the moment, Dib was all about giving one order: _Run!_

He called to the others out of the alley, just as Arkady announced his missile was locked, his eye pressed against the command units night vision sight. A heartbeat later, he fired.

The missile ripped away with a terrific '_whoosh' _while a massive chute of fire extended from the missiles tail.

Like a star in the night, the missile streaked up into the dark mantle of clouds. Even as Arkady ditched the launcher and scrambled to his feet, the missile abruptly changed course, coming straight down in top attack mode. It struck the tanks heavy plasma cannon mounted to the top with a powerful explosion that shattered nearby windows and, in turn, tore into the ammo/battery compartments, creating several more explosions, white hot shrapnel fountaining from the wreckage as plasma bubbled off the sides, leaving heavy amounts of slag.

As more tongues of fire rose from the dead tank, Dib signaled the others on down the avenue, then stole a glance at his wrist mounted GPS. The Lieutenant had already programmed in their destination. All they had to do was hop over the debris and dead bodies, connect the dots and be on their way home.

If they wanted easy.

The two medics, Robbiard and Cook, were in charge of keeping the "package" in shape, said package being one Chieftain Major General Zim, the extra terrestrial in charge of the entire invasion on Earth, that and the Special Forces Commander of the Irken Main Intelligence Directorate.

According to intel intercepted by Air Forces first recon division, Zim works for the big guys themselves, Tallest Red and Purple, co-rulers of the mighty Irken Empire. After they had intercepted the intel, they tipped off the nearest combat operational unit, being Dibs, to abduct the good General, before he had the chance to flee the planet and return to either the large station orbiting the Earth or one of the various bases they had stationed on the Earths moon.

Moreover, the team had wrapped their package quite nicely. They had bound his wrists, taped his mouth, and placed a ballistic assault helmet with a full visor over his head. They needed that head. What he had in it could prove extremely valuable. They had also fitted him with a Dragon Skin armored vest composed of coin shaped silicon carbide ceramic. The pieces overlapped like fish scales to help dissipate a bullets kinetic energy, or stop plasma from burning though. They could have removed his PAK and downloaded his memory data, but they had not the technology to do so. Zim was far better protected then any man of the team and, of course, a lot more worth to the US Government than they were.

The sound of Irken PRV-225 directed energy weapons suddenly erupted behind them, rounds of violet plasma burrowed into the wall a meter behind Dib.

He wanted to scream for the others to run, but the incoming fire from behind was more than enough motivation.

They charged forward, McLeod and Vargas in the lead, the medics, Zim and the rest of them closely behind. Dib was pulling up the rear.

Dib raced to the next corner, dodged behind a wall, then rolled back and opened fire as Arkady arrived at his side, adding more suppressing fire as the spent 7.62mm shells ejected from his M249 squad automatic weapon.

Four Irken Elites accompanied by six Imperial Troopers were hustling across the road about a block away, rounds discharging as they cut loose another salvo.

Dib and Arkady fired a few more rounds, sending the Irkens into crouching positions; then Dib urged Arkady back, the Heavy Weapons Sergeant nodded and took off.

The wind picked up, finally bringing the rain, hard and heavy, in time with Dib's pulse.

Meanwhile, the rest of the team ducked into another alley, heading for the next street, and a glance from his GPS told Dib that the Lieutenant was taking a shortcut, probably getting word from Detachment Bravo. That Special Forces team was back at the tactical command post, monitoring their Blue Force tracking screens and informing the lieutenant that more troopers were starting to surround them.

Dib got on the radio "Hammer one-two, this is Viper."

"Go ahead, Viper."

"We have a squad in pursuit, maybe more coming, over."

"Roger, there are at least a few what appears to be Elites coming from the west and a light armored vehicle coming from the north."

"I figured. We'll break off and intercept the dismounts. Buy you a little time, over."

"Do it."

"On our way. Viper, out."

Arkady, who had been listening over the channel, slowed as Dib caught up with him. They continued up the street, toward a two story factory or warehouse.

As they reached the corner, they jumped down into a loading bay area, where collected rain water reached their knees.

Arkady swore, slipped, fell face forward and Dib seized his arm and dragged him upwards. They trudged forward, out of the puddle, toward where flashlights- three of them to be exact- shone across the street from an alleyway that divided another two factory buildings in half.

Dib tipped his head in that direction, and they sprinted off, able to reach the wall near the alley before the Irken Imperial Troopers emerged.

There they paused, and in the seconds it took to catch his breath, Dib tapped his GPS, zooming in on his location to see if they could circle around the alley and come in from the back side or simply try a frontal approach.

A male sounding voice speaking Irken, heavy and burred, menacing, echoed off the walls. The Irkens were right there.

Arkadys expression grew empathetic with the need for orders.

Dib motioned for Arkady to crouch down, then he whispered into his mic: "I've got the first one."

"Okay."

The trooper reached the end of the alleyway, and Dib already had his Blackhawk Caracara knife in hand, a black talon of steel that would cut silently and effortlessly through flesh.

The trooper came forward, waving his light-

Dib sprang on him, drawing the blade across the Irkens neck in a fluid motion, cupping his hand over it's mouth.

Even as the light green, semi-transparent blood gushed from the Irkens severed neck, Dib gave the trooper a second punch- the kill shot to the spinal cord. He grew limp and crumbled.

One of the troops called out to his buddy.

Arkadys eyes could not grow any bigger then they already were.

Dib nodded, and Arkady whirled forward, into the alley, just as the second trooper drew near-

Yet even Arkady at point blank range fired into the Irkens head, the third and final trooper fired before Dib could.

It all happened so fast that Dib didn't realize what happened until...

The two Imperial Troopers collapsed to the puddles...

Followed by Arkady.

"Aw,no... _No, no,no._"

A harsh pang struck Dib at his core as he rushed to his friend, dropped to his knees, eyes already burning.

Arkady had taken a bolt to the head. He was already gone.

Dib froze. In shock. No time now. Just nothing. Emptiness. And suddenly, he thought of the day he and Arkady had been sitting in the barracks together, hearing about the news that he never hoped to hear of. People always asked: Where were you when the invasion happened?

_I was with my best friend Arkady._

Dib reached out, wanting to touch the mans cheek, when the Lieutenants voice boomed into his ear: "Viper, this is Hammer one-two. We're nearing the pickup zone, taking heavy fire, over!"

Dib just breathed.

"Viper, this is Hammer one-two, over!"

"Uh, Hammer one-two, this is Viper.

"Taking heavy fire!"

"Roger that, Hammer one-two. We got those other guys, but we lost Brick, over."

The Lieutenants tone shifted. He swore then said, "Just rally on us now!"

Watching Arkady dying right there in the street got under Dibs skin, that impenetrable Marine skin. And suddenly, he wasn't thirty-two years old anymore but about ten, propelled by utter fear as he raced down the alley, wiping the tears from his cheek.

He came out, glanced around, and began to hear the heavy whomping of the extraction VTOL craft. But it was accompanied by another sound, a whirling alarm like noise that droned on.

He was at full sprint alongside the parking garage now, the MV-22 Osprey just on the other side, the alarm growing louder; and as he rounded the corner, he saw what was happening: an Irken DMOV-3 was rolling up and blasting the team with a long range acoustical device. The sound was so loud you couldn't help but cover your ears as the enemy gunned you down.

They hadn't opened fire with their big guns yet cause they wanted their general back alive. But that didn't stop five or six dismounts from discharging selective rounds at the team, just as they reached the VTOLs loading ramp.

The crafts door gunners did what they could, cutting loose the .50 caliber M2HBs, but they couldn't concentrate with the sound blaring in their ears. No helmets or plugs could help them.

Dib wasn't sure if he had taken a round or not as he came in from on the other side of the bird and launched himself into the air, crashing into the bay, someone shrieking in agony as the VTOL tipped its twin propellers forward and suddenly took off, plasma bolts still peppering the fuselage.

The DMOV-3s crew fired wildly with their twin heavy plasma cannons mounted on the top, deciding they'd take the chance and bring the bird down. But the teams pilot descended quickly to the other side of the garage, out of the line of fire, then suddenly banked right, headed back east, keeping low, weaving between buildings, heading for the front lines, for United States Military held ground, for safety.

As he looked around the bay, out of breath and bleary eyed, Dib realized that only McLeod, Vargas, one medic and one engineer were onboard, along with Zim.

"Where's everyone else? _Where are they?"_

The Lieutenant shook his head as his eyes plastered themselves to the floor. The Lieutenant was shaking and broken.

Vargas and the medic were no longer moving, the engineer was clutching his leg, shot in femoral artery and bleeding all over the bay floor.

Just then, McLeod released the quick release straps of his MTV armor and let it thump to the floor, he then pulled his bloody and scorched ACUPAT jacket open, revealing a pair of dark holes. He wouldn't make it, and neither would the engineer.

"We need help!" Dib cried out to one of the door gunners.

The guy ignored him, tending to his own shoulder wound.

Gritting his teeth, Dib pulled himself over to the Irken, wrenched up the helmets visor, and grabbed him by the neck "Are you worth it, you bastard?"

The Irken stared up with his vacant ruby eyes.

Dib glanced back to the remains of his team, then glared at the General once more and screamed, "_Are you worth it!?_"

(End Chapter)


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

She would not allow Red to insult her or her unit, no matter the cost. And she could not believe such an insult had come from a leader too incompetent to coordinate his own troops in the absence of his Commanders, how dare Red take such a tone with her!

Perhaps he would not survive the conversation!

Tak stared at one of the two leaders of the Empire with her cold violet eyes, who stared back through the large digital monitor. Reds pronounced jaw, penetrating eyes, his impeccably jagged antenna stripped fifty four years of military service prior to becoming leader, the shoulder pads attached to his body shell, giving him a menacing look.

The leader shook his head.

"I'll say it again General. I'm surprised your Elites and security units allowed such a breach. And now they have Zim."

"We were addressing the breach, but they had help from the inside."

"Which is even more disturbing. And now you tell me the Generals chip had been deactivated by these Americans? We can't kill him? If Zim talks-"

"I think he will hold out for as long as possible. But it won't matter either way. There's nothing those humans can do to stop us. The wheels are already in motion. And I will plug this leak."

"General, I want to believe you're right. But then again, I believed your security forces were the best within the Empire."

Tak crossed her arms over her chest and snorted. "I'm right. Believe it."

Tallest Red considered it. A smile nicked the corner of his lips as he glanced away to another screen.

"The humans are beginning to fall back, it would seem Major Klar is having more success than you at the moment."

Tak discerned the dismissal in her leaders tone. "For the moment, the Major is doing quite well for him and his unit, but we, too, will succeed. Spahni, amat'o. Thank you."

The leader nodded and Tak broke the link. Then she turned around in her chair and smote a fist at the table, highly unlike her.

She wanted to call someone, vent her anger, but she had no real friends, just a shifting coterie of allies. Even her spartanly finished office seemed to taunt her, to remind her that all the blood, sweat and tears, there were still Irkens like Red who would dismiss her sacrifices as cavalierly as they would the lowly service drones of the Empire.

What had she become?

That even they needed little to no sleep, she hadn't slept in nearly 20 years, since the launch of operation impending doom II, that perhaps she was part machine. Created by the leaders of the Empire themselves, maybe she was.

And oh, she had served her leaders well, in the first and second Earth invasions, twice a hero back then. She had assumed her rightful position as an Invader and over eight years had expanded the Empires power and purpose.

But had she focused too much on the work?

Her subordinates even questioned her Commanding Officers death, wondered if she was somehow involved.

She would speak of it to no one, nor let the memory data be downloaded, purge all thoughts of it from her mind.

She returned to her seat, leaned forward to the computer screen and reminded herself of the dream she shared with her subordinates, the dream she shared with her leaders:

There could be only one superpower in the universe. And she would do anything to ensure that.

Why? To restore the Empires name over the Earths combined forces. To achieve a level of personal power nearly unimaginable.

And to be like her hero, Scri, who never wore a personal side arm yet boldly thrust his chest against the Vortians. Scri would know how to bring all the Earth forces down to their knees as he had done the Vortians.

At one hundred and ninety six, there weren't many things left in the universe that truly moved Major General Tak.

War was one of them.

And while agonizing at times, it was still terribly fun.

(End Chapter)


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Major Katrina Parsons, USMC, wanted to speak to the prisoner herself, so she had caught a flight to Washington, DC, one of the few secure places on Earth, where he was being held in a facility somewhere underground.

Five well armed rifle squads of United States Marines had been dispatched to reinforce security at the facility, and two Sergeants stood at the gate, unflinching in the morning rain.

But as Parsons exited her armored SUV, their expressions shifted, eyes playing over her face and going down to her legs, despite the trench coat.

She was used to the ogling, but never tolerated it. Her glare sent their gazes straight ahead, and she offered them a crisp official sounding, "Good morning."

"Morning ma'am." They said in unison .

Parsons was escorted into the facility by heavily armored soldiers wearing EOD suits with supplemented armor covering high risk areas, knees, elbows, forearms, every body part you can think of shooting at, covered. Their reinforced blast helmets covered by a high, thick Kevlar collar ensured complete cover of the neck and face, not being able to see any of it due to the heavily tinted, thick shatter proof glass making their visors, completing the famed "Juggernaut" armor. Her own personal guards in civilian clothing looked dwarfed compared to the lumbering, armored giants hefting light machine guns.

After passing through four check points, they finally reached the small, ten by ten interrogation room.

The facility Commanders had already sent in a team of six of their best interrogators, all of which spent more then ten hours questioning Chieftain Major General Zim.

Doctrine gave the interrogators twenty one approaches to "convince" prisoners of war to divulge critical intelligence. They were designed to exploit the prisoners personal history, morality, sense of duty, love of origin, relationships with comrades and even his sense of futility. Carefully applied in the correct combinations, the approaches were said to work on nearly everyone.

But during the flight over, Parsons had learned that Zim had given up nothing. He made no attempt to invent information or misdirect the interrogators. He simply refused to cooperate and demanded the consequences of such refusal be carried out immediately.

"Hello, Major," came a voice from behind her. The lead interrogator, Hal Buckley, proffered his large hand and introduced himself. He was an impressive looking Caucasian male despite his tattered business attire and the dull haze in his eyes.

"Nothing new since we last spoke?"

He shook his head and sighed in disgust. "I haven't been given authority to use enhanced measures."

"We'll go there, but only if it's absolutely necessary. I want to speak with him now."

She headed toward the door, while Buckley motioned for one of the guards to unlock the door.

Parsons stepped into the room, and closed the door behind her.

The General sat at the head of a small, steel table bolted to the floor and kept his head lowered along with his antenna pressed to his skull.

He had pale green skin, stressed from the campaign, and from what she could tell from under his straight jacket, a barrel chest and thick arms. He was, in most respects, a beautiful Irken, a predator with his wings clipped.

"General, look at me."

Slowly, his head rose, and his semi vacant eyes began to focus, grow brighter. He spoke in a weird accent barely there, but his English was excellent: "Major Parsons, the most famous executive officer of the Central Intelligence Agency. And one of the youngest. You are more beautiful in person than the photos and videos I've studied, for a human. They do you no justice. How old are you? Twenty nine?"

"What's going on up in the Amundsen Gulf?"

"You are thirty four. I know how old you are. And such a beautiful young human given a terrible job."

Parsons spoke through her teeth. "What's going on up there?"

"Nothing."

"What is operation 2659? Who is Sneg?"

"Major, if you've come to ask me those painfully obvious questions, you've wasted your time. Don't you want to know more about your adversary? Doesn't it fascinate you that I'm here, in the flesh? I've studied you for a very long time. I know everything about you. Your father was an Air Force pilot. You went to Virginia Military Institute, class of two thousand and five."

"Two thousand and four," she corrected.

He smiled, "Of course. And then you went to the United States Naval Academy, got your B.S. in systems engineering, graduated summa cum laude. Very impressive, for a human I suppose. You've been in U.S. Naval Intelligence and logistics and went to serve in the U.S. Special Naval Warfare Command. I even know you were hand picked by one General Scott Mitchell. Your favorite ice cream flavor is rocky road, and you watch that romantic comedy with... I can't remember the actors name, he was horrible anyway. But you watch it over and over. Too many times."

Her face twisted into a frown, "I didn't know I had an Irken stalker."

"_Stalker_? Of course not. Details are my God. Know your enemy, keep him close, study him, learn his weaknesses, exploit them, and then bring him down - if you want to call that _stalking_. I call it hunting."

"You're planning another attack. And you're going to tell us about it."

"Please, Major. We know where this is going and how it's going to end. Fly home. Forget about me."

She narrowed her gaze, "I will get authorization to use enhanced methods to interrogate you, do you know what that means?"

"This is where you promise to torture me, but it never comes because there are too many... How would you humans say, 'bleeding hearts' in your government to allow that to happen. If we had captured you, I already would have stripped the flesh off your back, and then we would have stuck a long needle in your arm. We would have had you talking within the first hour, if not less. I have been here a long time, ten, fourteen hours? I do not know. They took my instruments. And you have nothing after all that time, nothing except a team of dead soldiers."

Parsons chest grew tighter, her breath shallow. She stood and came around the table, leaned over it, and got into the generals face.

"Those men gave their lives to bring you back here. Oh, you're going to talk. But first, I suspect, you're going to bleed. A lot."

"Like I said, you're a beautiful creature with a terrible job." He laughed again, under his breath.

Her fist connected with his mouth, driving his head back, and she thought, _My God, I just punched him_, but there was no taking it back. The door swung open and the guards rushed in, followed by Buckley. "Major, please, we have strict orders not-"

"I issued those orders," she said, running her knuckles. Zim faced her, blood streaming from his mouth.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For allowing me to bleed for my Empire."

He smiled, baring his zipper like teeth, blood filling the cracks in between.

"Major Parsons, you are apparently the only _man_ here."

She regarded Buckley. "Clean him up. He's off to the holding pen."

"I'm sorry Major." Said said the General.

She frowned.

"I'm sorry we don't have more time to talk." The guards took the General by the arms and forced him to his feet, now standing about 6 foot 2".

"I wanted to express my condolences about your mother," he added quickly.

"My mother?"

"The cancer. And yes, I wanted to tell you that you should talk to your sister, that she is still your sister despite your political differences. And I wanted to tell you that it's okay to cry, late at night, like you do sometimes when you eat that ice cream. The rocky road. It's okay."

She balled her hands into fists, glowered at him, flicked her glance to Buckley." Get this... _Freak_... Out of here."

Zim winked. "Zhal'ko, Major."

Chills ripped across her shoulders as they shoved him out of the room as he laughed manically, blood dripping from his chin. She trembled violently now, began to loose her breath.

"Major?" Called Buckley. "Are you alright?"

She closed her eyes.

Bared her teeth.

And inside, she screamed.

(End chapter)


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

"Oh damn, Mick, we only got ten minutes before the Irkens arrive."

Staff Sergeant Ray Harper, leader of the six man USMC Force Reconnaissance team, didn't need his assistant, Sergeant Allen Jones, to remind him of that. He'd set his stop watch within the second he and his team stepped off the ramp of the A/C-604 Dragon before it lifted off the ground and thundered off to seek cover until they called her back.

"We've got less time than that, Jonesy. But the crash site should be just over that ridge."

"Yeah, but it don't look good. No contact from them. We don't even know if this guy is still alive."

"Our job's to find out. Come on!"

The sun was beginning to set over the Sierra Maestra mountains in southern Cuba, and the shadows grew longer across slopes covered in mud from the midday rains. Harper and his men had already shouldered their way through some dense jungle in sweltering, humid air, but they were almost at the site.

And no, this wasn't a run of the mill TRAP (Tactical Recovery of Aircraft and Personnel) mission. Apparently, one of the passengers onboard the Learjet was an Irken General who'd been on his way to the newly commissioned Guantánamo Bay prison, opened for business once more for Irkens caught during war. The Irkens downed the jets escort fighters, then managing to strike a glancing blow on the get, firing it down to the mountains.

Fortunately, Harper and his entire Force Recon company had been engaged in a weeklong, live fire training exercise at Gitmo and able to respond within minutes of the call.

Unfortunately, they'd been out in the field doing some physical training when the call had come, and they'd been forced to board the VTOL with whatever they had, leaving behind their best high tech toys- advanced body armor, weapons and communications systems that were all a part of the military's Future Force Warrior program.

They'd get by with just the conventional gear.

Harper believed that if you depended too much upon technology in the field, you'd become sloppy and soft, a kid at the convenience store who can't make change, a Marine who can't aim because the computer does it for him.

He waved on the others, Jonesy first; then his two recon scouts, Corporal Tristan and Szymanski; his radio operator, Lance Corporal Fritz; and finally the team's medic, Navy Corpsmen Gis, who carried the teams biggest gun, the Squad Automatic Weapon, because putting steel on target was the best form of preventative medicine.

Tristan and Szymanski moved out ahead, walking point, ready to throw hand signals or call in via the intra-team radio at their first sign of contact.

Meanwhile, the other two six man teams were about three kilometers west, moving to head off part off a company sized Irken ground force that had already inserted, minutes after the crash. A second Irken team was just north of the site, and Higher was scrambling to put another Force Recon platoon on the ground there, but Harper still bet his team would reach the jet before the Irkens did.

Their friends on the orbital station were taking no chances and assuming nothing. They'd actually planned in advance to drop troops on the ground and ensuring that this General was dead.

That certainly had Harper's attention.

He pulled up the rear, repeatedly stealing glances behind. They stole higher up the slope, boots digging deeper into the mud, as the mountain grew darker and the hoots and cries of birds seemed to drift off into the eerie silence, save for their footfalls. The stench of the crash grew stronger, a combination of mildew, smoke and spilled fuel.

"Outlaw Three, this Outlaw One, over," Called Harper over the radio.

"Go ahead, One," Answered Tristan; he was also the team's sniper, six feet of muscle and hard heart.

"Got eyes on the site, over?"

"Just now, but we'll need to approach over that hill to the east. We can't get down this way. Too steep, come on up and have a look, over."

"Coming up."

After reaching the ridge and jogging over to where Tristan and Szymanski were hunkered down, Harper caught his breath and saw what the sniper was talking about.

The approach was far too steep. Even so, this perch afforded a perfect view of the valley below.

The Learjet had burrowed into the side of the mountain, yet most of the fuselage was intact. Its wings were gone, though, its side door was open, smoke still pouring from its engines and the long, meter deep furrow stretching out behind. They couldn't get to it, but circling around as Tristan had suggested would kill even more time.

"What do you want to do, Sergeant?" Asked Szymanski. His chiseled face and thick neck dappled with sweat.

"Shift around."

"Uh oh," Interrupted Tristan, staring though a pair of night vision goggles into the gloom ahead.

"Enemy contact, tree line north. At least six guys, maybe more. They're moving in."

Harper tensed. So the Irkens had beaten them to the site, but they hadn't reach the jet itself yet. He got on the radio: "Outlaw Team, this is One. I want Outlaws Three and Six up on the ridge. I want sniper and SAW fire on that tree line. The rest of you come with me!"

Gis hustled forward with his big machine gun, setting up a few meters away from Tristan, who dropped to lie prone with his M82A1 anti material rifle balanced on its bipod.

Harper led Jonesy, Szymanski, and Fritz along the ridge, weaving though the palms and other trees until they reached the aforementioned hill east of their position. It, too, was particularly steep but draped in enough dense foliage to conceal their advance- and the possibility of a tumble down the hillside.

"Outlaw One, this is Outlaw Six," Called Gis. "They're breaking from the tree line, over."

"Let Outlaw Three take the first shot, and that's your signal to open up, over."

"Roger that."

Harper imagined Tristan up there on the hill, staring though his scope, making hasty calculations- when suddenly his rifle resounded, a great thunderous clap echoing off the mountains.

A gasp later, Gis began delivering his lecture, the Professor of Doom bathing himself in the brass casings, the SAW _rat a tat tating _loud and clear.

Harpers group had a handful of seconds to make their break from the slope and weave a serpentine path toward the downed plane.

He ordered Szymanski and Fritz out first and they charged away, vanishing off into the trees, while he and Jonesy took a more westerly path, closer to the Irkens in the tree line. Harper figured that even if the enemy got closer, at least two of his men would make it to the plane, while he and Jonesy could intercept.

Up on the hill, Gis and Tristan continued laying down fire, the Irkens only answering with sporadic shots.

Harper and Jonesy reached the Learjet, two seconds behind the other guys. "Stay out here," Harper ordered Szymanski. "Mask up. Pop smoke. Fritz, stay with him. Call the PL, tell him we've reached the site."

"You got it Sarge."

"Harper and Jonesy slipping on their masks and Harper followed Jonesy into the hazy confines of the jet, rifles at the ready.

The cabin walls and ceiling were heavily scorched.

He glanced right.

And he wished he hadn't.

At least ten people were strewn about, their blackened limbs twisted at impossible angels. A few of them were dressed in the burned remains of civilian clothes while the others wore military uniforms, Navy mostly.

"Check the cockpit," He told Jonesy, then rushed forward to the nearest body, whose government ID had melted to his chest. There wasn't much left of his face, either, but it was clear he wasn't their Irken General. He was a white man, middle aged.

Harper was about to move on to the next guy- when the man's eyes snapped open, shocking the hell out of him. "Jesus!"

The survivors voice came thin and cracked. "Help me."

Harper leaned over the man. "Whoa, God, buddy, yeah, yeah, I will. And you need to help me. We're looking for a guy, an Irken General."

"Sergeant!" Hollered Fritz from the doorway. "I think we got another squad. They're moving up!"

"Okay, get ready to fall back. We have a survivor here. Jonesy, check the others!"

Harper's assistant emerged from the cockpit. "Roger that. Pilots are dead," He reported, his voice muffled by his mask.

The survivor grabbed Harper's arm. "Please, my daughters need me."

"Don't worry buddy, I'll get you out of here. What's your name?"

"Hal Buckley."

"All right, Mr. Buckley, stay calm." Harper carefully unfastened the mans seat belt. "But listen to me, man. The General. We need to know about that Irken General. He's supposed to be onboard."

Buckley grimaced.

Abruptly, plasma bolts began drumming the outside of the fuselage-

And Jonesy came rushing forward from the back of the jet. "Looks like some civilians and officers, but no ones cuffed, Sarge."

"Hal, where's the Irken?"

Buckley swallowed.

Harper seized him by the collar. "Where is he?"

Buckley slowly blinked. "He got here by sub. We're just the... Just the decoy. He was never on this flight."

Harpers shoulders slumped. He released Buckley and glanced over his shoulder to Jonesy.

"Well, I thought I was a Marine, not an actor," Snapped Jonesy. "And I just love being expandable."

Harper took a deep breath, composed himself. "All right. Doesn't matter what's going on here. Decoy, or no. We got a survivor. Help him get out, get him strapped into a litter."

Jonesy sighed in disgust. "You got it."

Drawing in another deep breath, Harper shifted outside, where Fritz and Szymanski had taken up foreign positions on their bellies alongside the fuselage, whose port side faced the tree line, now obscured in thick walls of gray smoke.

Harper got on the radio with his Platoon Leader, shared the grim news that they were just part of a decoy mission but that they did have one survivor to rescue. The PL promised close air support within five minutes. A pair of plasma grenades exploded somewhere behind them in a brilliant violet ball of energy. That would be the Irkens trying to take out Gis and his big gun.

"Outlaw Six, this is One. Take Three and rally east to our second hill, over. We're bringing up the survivor."

"Roger that, One. On my way, out."

Harper and Jonesy moved Buckley out of the Learjet. As Jonesy unfurled the portable litter he had removed from his pack, Fritz and Szymanski kept the Irkens busy, triplets of fire drumming repeatedly. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of the A/C-604s rolling in began to grow louder.

Once Buckley was strapped in, Harper called back the scout and radio operator from their firing positions and gave them the unenviable task of hauling the injured man back up the hillside. He and Jonesy would remain behind cover.

"Go now!" He cried, and while the two men took off with their survivor, he and Jonesy set up on either side of the fuselage.

Not three seconds later, something remarkable and utterly breath robbing occurred:

The damned Irkens decided to storm the jet!

A wave of what appeared to be six Imperial Troopers in masks appeared in the smoke not twenty meters away, running directly at Harper, their rifles blazing, discharged plasma bolts punching into and burning the plane, popping in the mud, whizzing overhead.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harper spotted at least as many troopers charging toward Jonesy.

"Oh my God, Ray! Here they come!" Cried his assistant.

A terrible ache woke deep in Harper's gut as he realized he couldn't get them all. Damn, there was too much life left in him. He hadn't even found the right women... And he'd worked so damn hard to get where he was, a Force Recon Warrior- swift, silent, and deadly- the eyes and ears of his Commander.

How many training missions? How many real operations, including that big one in the mountains of Bulgaria, fighting those terrorist bastards, the Green Brigade? And now the big war had just started, maybe the war to end all wars, and he'd barely had the chance to take his contribution to the fight.

His life wasn't flashing before his eyes. That was a myth. But that ache, that solid, thick ache whispered like the reaper in his ear.

_This is it, time's up. The bill's come due_.

He figured the best he could do was lie down some fire across the unarmored legs, try to drop all six of them as quickly as possible, and as they fell, he might be able to pan again with another salvo.

He set his teeth and squeezed the trigger of his carbine, striking the legs of the Irken to his far right, bringing that alien down, though he could still recover and fire.

Yet before Harper knew what was happening, Tristan's sniper rifle boomed once, blasting the head off one Irken, boomed again, tore off the shoulder of another. Harper continued sweeping across the last three guys, dropping all of them.

Not a second after he did that, Gis cut into them from above with his SAW.

Harper exploited the moment to burst up from his position and charge toward the Irkens attacking Jonesy's position. He already had a grenade loaded in his carbines attached launcher, so he let it fly. Just as the grenade hit the mud and exploded, Harper hit the deck himself, bringing up the rifle and taking their line with fire.

Suddenly, out of the smoke, came a lone Irken, Invader insignia plastered on his left breast, blood pouring from his neck, his helmet and mask gone. He screamed something in Irken at Harper as blood poured from his mouth and swung his rifle around.

The roar of their A/C-604 was deafening now, the twin propulsion systems under each wing suddenly blasting them with hot air, knocking the Irken back. As the enemy soldier lost his balance, the door gunner from the back opened up on him, and he jerked involuntarily before hitting the ground.

Since the valley was far too dense for the crafts pilot to land, the bird continued to wheel overhead, door gunners from the back and sides cutting apart the tree line, giving the remaining Irkens something to think about.

Harper got to his feet and jogged past the dead troops where Jonesy was lying on his gut.

Unmoving.

Harper ripped off his mask and dropped to his knees, shaking his assistant. Then he ripped off Jonesy's mask and rolled the man over, seeing that he'd been shot in the face and neck.

Harper rose, and the anger and frustration suddenly funneled into his arms and legs. He hoisted Jonesy over his back in a fireman's carry and staggered away from the downed plane toward the hill. Fritz ran to meet him.

"They got Jonesy," Was all Harper could say in a shaky voice.

He told himself over and over that it didn't matter that the mission was a decoy and that they'd been pawns in a little game of deception. It didn't matter. It was a Marine Corps operation and Jonesy had done his job, as they all had.

But his mind raced with the what ifs and with the names of people he could hold responsible. If Higher knew that the mission was a decoy, then why did they risk the lives of highly trained Marine Corps operators? Couldn't they have played wait and see or just attacked from the air? They probably wanted the decoy to look perfect, right down to the bogus rescue mission on the ground.

Harper was left with one hope: that Jonesy had died for something meaningful. Something important.

(End chapter)


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Staff Sergeant Dib Membrane had Chieftain Major General Zim strapped to an inclined board, his head lowered to about forty five degrees. He'd wrapped cellophane over the Generals face, allowing him a small gap for him to breathe.

Dib picked up the hose and released some pressure, allowing a stream of pure water to flow over the Generals head. Most prisoners lasted a handful of seconds, until the gag reflex kicked in, along with the fear of drowning; but the General didn't move, didn't flinch. And this went on for more than two minutes until Dib got so frustrated with the Irken that he threw away the hose, ripped off the cellophane and screamed,

"What's in that head that's so important!? What do you know!?"

The Generals eyes widened as he picked up his head to face Dib.

"_What's in my head!?_ The real question is what's in your head. And the answer is _me_.

"If I can't kill you, they will. You need to die."

"Dib, please. I know exactly who you are. I know that you joined the Military because you were bullied all through school, that you somehow wanted to get revenge on them, on me, to prove to us that you were more than just a punching bag. You thought you could be a _man_."

"Not true."

"Why did you kill your father?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You killed him when you joined the Military. Murdered him. Because he knew, deep down, the war was coming. And he loved his son... But you killed him."

"No!" Dib beat a fist into his palm.

"And now you are alone. You took him. Who knows who took your mother. Your sister and your puny Air Force are powerless against the Armada. And I took all your friends, your brothers in arms. You're the only one left. Why were you spared? Do you think it's what you humans call _fate_?"

"I don't know. It doesn't matter. I'm just having another nightmare about how much I want to kill you.

His large, ruby eyes penetrated his soul as he whispered his words in a mocking grin, "Would that make you feel better?"

With a gasp and shudder, Dib sat up in his bunk. He looked at his hands, which were balled into fists. Then he glanced up, out the window of his barracks.

It was a beautiful morning, a cloudless sky sweeping over Fort Lewis, Washington.

He was back home with the 1st Marine Group (Airborne), and recently assigned to a new Operational Detachment Alpha team, ODA-888. The company commander wanted to keep him out of the field until he "healed," but he'd insisted that he was okay. There were officers further up the chain of command who believed his pain could be converted into a powerful weapon, especially during times like these.

"Hey, Dib, you want to get some chow?"

Staff Sergeant Dax Rarik stood in the doorway, lifting his chin at Dib.

Rarik was about to turn thirty, already had a little grey in his sideburns, most likely from stress, but his baby blue eyes and unwrinkled face made him look like a kid. He was assigned to the Stryker Brigade Combat Team and was a rifle squad leader in charge of eight other guys. They'd storm down the Strykers rear ramp, divide into two teams, four breaking off to the right, five of them to the left, and raise serious hell on the enemy.

Dibs friendship with Dax was quite extensive. They met during basic training, they'd talked about fishing and knife collecting and learned that they'd both been born and raised in the same city, their houses no more then a few spaces apart. Small world. They'd kept in touch over the years and eventually had both been assigned to Fort Lewis, and while Dib had come home to a few friendly faces, mostly acquaintances, the only guy he'd call a friend, the only guy he'd talked to in the past few days.

"Dax, I don't feel so good. Maybe later."

"Bro, you don't look so good. Couldn't sleep again?"

Dib shook his head.

"Come outside, get some air. At least some coffee."

After rubbing the corner of his eyes, Dib nodded, dragged himself from the bed, and pulled on his trousers.

They took the long path toward the mess hall, the snow capped mountains on the horizon. Dib squinted in the sun.

"Any word on your next deployment?"

"None yet. The Euro Ops have a lot to do with where we might get sent next. Who knows?"

Dib nodded.

Up ahead stood the long, rectangular mess hall with a brick facade, a new facility constructed just in the past year. Dib took another three steps- when the windows of the mess hall blew out with an ear shattering boom.

He and Rarik hit the deck as the glass tumbled to the pavement and smoke began billowing from the jagged holes.

Rarik was already on his feet, sprinting toward the mess hall, with Dib screaming for him to "Wait up, there could be more bombs!"

They charged forward, over carpets of glass, pieces of blinds and other debris. The pair of glass entrance doors had been blown off, and they couldn't see through the clouds of brown and grey smoke.

"Dax, it's not safe yet!"

"I don't care! Jesus, they hit us here?" Rarik gasped.

The question was who. The Irkens? Any one of the hundreds of terrorist groups out there? Or was it just some grunt who'd gone insane and strapped himself with explosives before sitting down to breakfast?

After waiting another moment for the smoke to clear a little, Dib followed Rarik into the mess; an oppressive wall of heat still emanated from the area. He held his breath, spotted a Lance Corporal on the ground, clutching his bleeding arm. He helped the guy to his feet, got him through the front, and led him to the grass. Then Dib, coughing hard, his eyes burning, rushed back into the mess.

The smoke and dust cleared a bit more, and it appeared that the blast had come from the center of the large dining area; there was a gaping crater in the concrete, tables upturned and shattered by the concussion. And there were pieces of soldiers everywhere.

Dib gagged. The rest if it became a blur of images accompanied by the sickly sweet odor of burned flesh. Someone shrieked, and the cry wouldn't stop echoing.

In the hours that followed, he and Rarik learned the truth: the Green Brigade terrorist group was responsible for the bombing.

Formed when the first Irken invasion was launched, they were a Militant environmentalist/anti biologist group of cells throughout the world but primarily in Europe and South America. From 2018 until 2022, they were credited with more than a thousand acts of violence, including acts of intimidation against factory and refinery workers and kidnapping and murder of business executives, Military Personnel and computer scientists.

One of their operatives had infiltrated the base and walked into the mess hall. He'd removed his uniform to reveal the explosives strapped to his chest. He'd made some announcement, but no one Dib had spoken to remembered what he'd said before detonating his bomb.

At the same time, the terrorists had struck a motor pool at Fort Bragg and a dozen other facilities all over the globe, including a few more Euro Military bases, a refinery in Venezuela, and even a Japanese whaler.

The group had gone silent after their leader, who dubbed himself "Green Vox," had been killed when his plane was destroyed by Irken forces late last year.

Oh, the man _portraying_ Green Vox was dead. But the impassioned true believer who was next in line had simply assumed his place and his identity.

Green Vox was the ultimate terrorist.

You could never kill him.

There was always another one.

Dib and Rarik had watched the bastard on one of the base's big screens, standing there in some undisclosed and heavily wooded location, wearing his green balaclava, a pair of dark shades covering his eye shadowed by a grey hood, shaking his gloved fist, and crying out in English but with a thick, German accent: "I am Green Vox. I am alive! I have returned! Ve are za Green Brigade transnational. Today marks our return. Ve will not stop until ze warmongers ont tyrants raping out dear Gaia and threatening to scorch her from above are wiped out. We call all ze free minded citizens to join us in curing our green mother globe of zis disease that will eventually kill us all."

Soldiers in the room began to throw paper cups and balled up napkins at the screen, cursing and shouting at the terrorist.

Dib drifted back to the chair in one corner, collapsed into the seat. Rarik sat next to him.

"I'm still in shock."

"You? I loose my entire team and come home to this. Just who the hell did I piss off up there?"

"Piss off? You escaped death twice. Go play the lottery. We could both use the money."

"Dax, I should've died in those streets."

"The survivor guilt is natural, man. You didn't die there. And you didn't die here. So that makes me believe you still have a lot of work to do."

"So it's fate?"

"I don't know."

Dib sighed loudly is frustration. "I need to work this out, go for a run, do some boxing, something..."

"I hear you. And I don't know if I believe in fate, but I believe in faith. I've got faith in you, faith in me. We'll get past this, move on. That's it, man."

Dib nodded, took a deep breath, closed his eyes. And there, in the darkness of his mind, stood General Zim, wearing a crooked grin with his straight jacket. Beside him, materializing from the shadows, came the hooded Green Vox, who folded his arms across his chest.

(End chapter)


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

They had given him an almost lethal amount of drugs.

They had spent hours questioning him.

They had grabbed him, shaken him, pummeled him, even threatened to kill him in the slowest and most painful way imaginable.

And still, Chieftain Major General Zim would tell them nothing. Even he could not believe how long he'd held out.

Surely the drugs should have loosened his tongue.

Or maybe they had.

Maybe he'd already told them everything and had simply forgotten his betrayal of the Empire.

The thought sent chills fanning across his shoulders. He sat in the corner of his cell, elbows pressing against the painful confines of the straightjacket. He stared up at an energy efficient fluorescent lightbulb glowing dimly from its socket.

That's what it was all about. Energy.

No changing that. And here he was. The end of his journey, perhaps. Major Katrina Parsons people had shoved him into one of the CIA submarines, a rather impressive little boat, and had secretly ferried him to Cuba.

He'd managed to overhear something about the decoy flight being shot down but nothing more.

He'd lost track of time; oddly, that bothered him more than anything. He'd spent his entire professional life chained to the clock, and now he was free of those shackles, only to have them replaced by a prison cell.

He nearly grinned over that irony as he glanced reflexively at his wrist, covered by the straightjacket. Some Irkens had long since given up the watch, in favor of newer devices to track time, but not him.

General Tak wore a watch as well, a watch that told her Zim was still a threat. The chip in Zim's head connected to his PAK was their only way to silence him. Once the Americans had deactivated it, they had detached him from the Irken Control System, the hive mind they all belonged to. Even if it took years, the Americans would try to extract all intelligence from Zim, one tooth at a time. Yes, Tak knew that the Americans would keep Zim alive, perhaps even use him as a negotiating, tool, but neither Tak, Red or even Purple would bargain.

This was his life now. He should resign himself to it.

But how does a warrior do that?

He didn't know. For now he turned his back on the present and looked to the past, the glorious past, if only to make himself feel better.

It was he and Tak who'd come up with the brilliant plan to secretly fund the Green Brigade Transnational and train them to attack the Liberty IV lifter at the John F. Kennedy Space Centre in Cape Canaveral. The plan was to prevent the Americans from launching yet another addition to their orbital defense platforms to prevent reinforcements and supplies from coming in. Some parts of these massive platforms can detach themselves from which three companies of Marines could deploy anywhere on Earth within sixty minutes.

It was a simple matter of hiring terrorists and making them your mercenaries. The difference was, the Green Brigade actually believed in what they were doing. Ideals were more important to them than money. As the humans said, it was a win win situation.

While the attack turned out to be a failure, it led to an unexpected and ultimately beneficial series of events. The CIA tracked Green Vox and his cronies to a training camp somewhere in the mountains of Bulgaria, but before they reached him, Tak was able to plant information on the terrorists linking them to members of the European Parliament.

The idea was to get the Americans to turn on the European Federation. Start a war between them. And then Tak and Zim would move in for the kill, and seize all of Europe for a new staging area while initiating a heavy assault on America while in their weakened states from battling one another. Green Vox escaped that attack, but the CIA found the information planted by Tak.

But then the situation turned once more. Green Vox had holed himself up in the swamps of Belarus.

And that's when Zim made his first mistake.

The Enforcers Corps had, in fact, captured Green Vox, but Zim ordered his platoon leader to demand a turnover of Green Vox so that the Irkens can return him to his commanding position. The Euros refused and, remarkably, wiped out Zim's platoon.

This was bad, as the Euros could manage to turn over Green Vox to the United States, he would crack under interrogation and reveal he'd been funded by the Empire.

Both the European Federation and the United States would rain hell upon the Empires forces.

That was hardly the plan.

Green Vox needed to die. And so Zim had assembled one of his best teams, who infiltrated Fort Campbell and reprogrammed the base's air defenses so the plane carrying Green Vox was blown out of the sky by human anti air guns before it could land.

Many bottles of celebratory Irken liquor had been opened in the hours following the crash.

Even better, the Americans were unable to identify Green Vox's assassins. Of course, Red and Purple were on purposely talking over an unsecured line, talking about the European Federation having something to do with it. So the Americans accused Nathalie Perreau, that infuriatingly brilliant French woman who'd become the first president of the EF in 2016, who was quick to return the accusation.

It was the Empires best interests to drive a huge wedge between the United States and Europe, so Tak and Zim had come up with a final plan, which took them back to the beginning of it all:

Destroy the Liberty IV lifter, whose launch had been delayed because of the first Green Brigade attack. Again, relying upon his cunning and three decades of tactical Military experience, Zim ordered a well disguised team of Special Operations forces to seize control of a European air base in Finland. They killed everyone, erased all security data, and uploaded a virus into the European Federation missile shield.

Hours later, when the Liberty IV lifted off, the virus caused Europe's laser satellites to misidentify the space craft as a missile. The ship was incinerated, killing dozens of Americans onboard. To create even more confusion, Zim arranged for no less than ten terrorist groups to claim responsibility for the Finland base attack and destruction of the lifter.

More bottles of liquor were emptied.

And now there was a great mistrust between to European Federation and the Americans.

No, it was not a total victory for the Empire, but given how badly things could have gone, Zim had been quite satisfied with the outcome.

He felt himself grinning at the deception he had caused between allies, in the shadows of his mind, the world appeared, engulfed in flames. And when Zim opened his eyes, he was sitting in a chair and staring into a beefy, bearded face of one of his interrogators, who asked again, "What is operation 2659? Who is Sneg?"

(End chapter)


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

The typical chime of the doorbell sent Major Katrina Parsons bolting up from her sofa. She noticed the motion sensor lights on the front porch had already clicked on.

_'Who the hell is that?'_

She grabbed her robe from one of the bar stools, slipped it on over her long nightgown, fastened her tie, then finger combed her hair.

It was 9:27 in the evening. No call had come from the gate, so it had to be one of her neighbors, right? A quick glance around her 1930s bungalow made her grimace. The rugs had been pulled, the paintings removed, all the light fixtures unscrewed from the walls and ceiling.

And that was just the begging.

She'd ransacked every room, every piece of furniture, looking for Zim's bugs. She'd even removed the shower heads. A number of Invader ranked Irkens had infiltrated Palma Ceia, the suburb of southern Tampa where Parsons had been living for the past few years. The bungalow she had once called sanctuary was midway between the international airport and MacDill Air Force Base, where the CIA had established one of its many command posts adjacent to United States Special Operations Command (USSOC).

Palma Ceia, she kept reminding herself, was a highly desirable neighborhood, and she lived on a private canal, with access to Tampa Bay and the Gulf beyond. Maybe Zim's men had slipped by flying under radar to bypass her security system and wire her house for sound and video.

But she had yet to locate any of his devices, and that was driving her even more insane.

Maybe they'd already been removed.

Or maybe he was getting his information from another source. But who? The only friends she had were her colleagues, and they, like her, were so plugged into the work that there was barely any free time. Sleep, eat, get back to work, get back to the war... She couldn't remember how many nights she had spent at the command post, stealing four hours on a cot, putting in a twenty hour day.

She grabbed her .45 from the kitchen counter, chambered a round, then started toward the door, not daring to get close enough to stare through the peephole, already imagining an Irken firing through the wooden door.

"Who is it?"

"It's me, Kat, open up."

Oh, God. She almost collapsed as the tension washed down into her legs. She threw the dead bolt, removed the chain and opened the door-

To find her father, shock of grey hair and grey mustache, holding a brightly wrapped present in his hands.

He smiled and said, "Happy birthday, sweetheart! I know I'm a couple of days early, but I'm going to be out of town and I wanted to surprise you before I left. That Charlie down at the gate is a good guy, let the old man have some fun."

His gaze finally found the gun in her hand, and he frowned.

"I wasn't expecting company, Dad."

"Well, Jesus, put that piece away. But I guess I should be glad you're not taking any chances, especially in times like these."

She moved aside, shut the door after him- but not before a furtive glance at the porch and front yard.

"You should have called, Dad."

"Holy... What happened?" He gaped at the place. "We're you robbed? Oh, my God. Did you call the Military Police?"

"I wasn't robbed. I did this."

"You? What the hell?" He shifted over to the bar counter, set down his gift, which looked like a hardcover book, and came to her, gripping her shoulders. "Kat, what's going on. Are you alright? Are you... Angry?"

She opened her mouth once, closed it, stammered, "I-I'm... Tired."

His gaze reached the ceiling, the unscrewed fixtures; that did it for him. "You think you've been under surveillance."

"I know I have been. Dad, I feel like I've been raped."

"Come here."

"I'm too old for a hug."

"I don't care, you're still my kid. Give the senior citizen a hug."

She did, and it felt good, reminded her of all those times as a child when she had fallen asleep in his lap, feeling utterly protected. And maybe she hung on now a little too clingy.

"If you're worried about surveillance, I want you to move. You think they're watching now?"

"I don't know." She wanted to whirl around, as she'd done earlier, flipping off the Irkens.

"Why don't you get a team in here to do a professional sweep?"

"I'm too embarrassed. When I'm off the base, I never talk about anything anyway. Everything he learned about me was personal, not professional."

"You want to go sit in my car?"

"No. I'm okay."

"Katrina, what can I do to help?"

She shrugged. "Give me my birthday present."

He fetched the gift, handed it to her.

"It's a book, and you know I don't have any time to read," She began.

"This one you might find interesting."

She peeled away the wrapper to reveal the title: _Irken Myths and Folklore_.

"Dad?"

He nodded. "Yesterday, the General and I played eighteen holes, and when I asked him how his daughter was doing, his reply was, 'Excellent, though she's obsessed with Irken Folklore at the moment.' I didn't know what he meant, but for the daughter who has everything, I thought what the hell, you might like this, if you don't have it already."

"No, I don't." She said, thumbing through the pages.

"So, is this a new hobby, or does it have something to do with..." He trailed off, gesturing to the disaster that was he living room. "Or do you not want to talk here."

"Maybe we will take a walk outside."

She tracked the book under her arm, and they headed out, into the backyard, and moved down to the dock and shimmering, still waters of the canal.

"And sweetheart, the book isn't only a gift. I've placed a little something in the card. And I want you to use them, all right?"

"More plane tickets? Dad, I can't take time off right now. I mean, the entire world is-"

"Not your responsibility. We all need downtime- and it looks like you do more than ever now."

"I'll be all right. Soon as I find out who Sneg is." She rapped a knuckle on the book.

"So, you've already read the book? You seem as if you have."

"Not this one. Thank you."

"I want a team in there to sweep the place, and then if you want to put the house on the market, lets do it. You'll get another place. "

"No, I won't let them win. I'll get the sweep."

"Good."

"Dad, thanks for coming."

A smile grew across her fathers face, he moved for another hug. "That's what fathers are for."

On the way back into the house, her cell phone rang, she reached into her robe, answered it. They needed her back at the command post.

(End chapter)


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

"Ghost Hawk, this is Siren. Contact is now three minutes out, over."

Lieutenant Colonel Gaz Membrane, dressed like a praying mantis in her pressure suit and alien like helmet with attached oxygen line, took a deep breath and adjusted her grip on the stick.

The F-35B electro optical targeting system (EOTS) continued to feed her up to the nanosecond images and data on the approaching targets, and her helmet mounted display system had some of the best head tracking hardware and software she had ever fielded, along with all the usual requirements like a binocular wide field of view, day/night capability with sensor fusion, and a digital image source for helmet displayed symbology- all of which was engineer speak for some wicked cool battle capability.

After an unusually long delay, her wingman, Major Jake Montes, finally replied with a curt "Roger that," His own F-35B streaking over the frozen tundra just off Gaz' right wing, it's tail glowing faintly in the night.

"Ghost Hawk, do you have a problem, over?"

"Negative Siren. Just shaking my head."

They had nearly forty Irken Spittlerunners on the AN/APG-81 AESA radar, the craft on a bearing due south across the Northwest Territories (Far north, Canada), maintaining an altitude of just one thousand feet.

To say that Gaz and Montes were surprised was an understatement.

Training out of a small USAF training base located approximately two hundred kilometers north of Yellowknife, the capital of the NWT, she and Montes were on their third scheduled night flight of the F-35B Short Take Off and Vertical Landing (STOVL) fighter used primarily by the USAF, USMC and the Royal Air Navy.

As USAF pilots, they were being cross trained in the fighter so that it's features could be exploited in non-carrier based operations located far inland and more arid terrain. The USAF had struck a deal with the commissioner of the NWT to use the largely unpopulated areas for tests.

Gaz and Montes had both hoped that after the fourteen day training mission, they'd get a chance to take their state of the art killing machines to Irk some day, the Irkens home planet. That the Irkens would help them see what they could do by dropping in themselves was exciting as it was troubling.

Gaz maintained a video blog, Femme Fatale Fighter Pilot, and she couldn't wait to share this with her readers, though she'd carefully dance around the classified details, and her face was always hidden behind her helmet.

"All right, Ghost Hawk, two minutes now," She'd reported. "Let's hit the gas and ascend before they spot us."

"Roger that."

"Igloo Base, this is Siren, we're climbing to fourteen thousand to hover and observe contact, over."

"Roger that, Siren. Igloo Base standing by."

She and Montes climbed to fourteen thousand, then, with the targets about to pass below in thirty seconds , they prepared to hover.

'_All right, baby, show me what you got_.'

Instead of utilizing lift engines or rotating nozzles on the engine fan and exhaust like the old Harriers, Gaz' F-35B employed a shift driven lift fan, patented by Lockheed Martin and developed by Rolls Royce.

The contra rotating was like a turboprop set into the fuselage, just behind the cockpit. Engine shaft power could be sent forward to it while bypass air from the cruise engine was sent to nozzles in the wings as the cruise nozzle at the tail vectored downward.

Thus, under her command, panels opened over the lift fan behind her, and a column of cool air providing 20,000 pounds of lifting power vented from the bottom of the aircraft, holding her steady, a fighter jet seemingly locked in air by an invisible tractor beam.

Montes was at Gaz's right wing, hovering as well.

"Siren, this is Igloo Base. We've received no response from your contact. You have authorization to fly by those Irken craft, attempt once more to make contact yourselves. Instruct them to turn around- but do not engage unless fired upon, over."

"Roger that, Igloo Base. If they fail to comply, we'd like authorization to engage, over."

"Understood, Siren. Out."

"Roger that Igloo Base, descending to intercept those craft. Ghost Hawk, you ready?"

"Oh, yeah, Siren."

"Just follow me. This'll be... Interesting."

With that, she broke from her hover, jamming the stick forward and diving, the Pratt & Whitney engine thundering behind her with a force that crept into her gut, energized her, made her feel powerful beyond measure.

There was no darkness. Infrared peeled back the night to reveal the Spittlerunners, and now closer, able to spot transport ships mixed in there, flying in two mixed clusters about three craft abreast, spread far enough apart to be engaged individually.

Gaz took her bird straight down toward the lead two transports accompanied by a Spittlerunner group, diving directly in front of them, just fifty meters ahead.

She could only imagine the looks on those Irken pilot's faces as their radars went wild, their canopies lit up, and they were suddenly buffeted by her jet wash- only to be hit two seconds later by Montes' exhaust.

Screaming toward the mottled carpet of snow and trees below, Gaz pulled up and banked right, while instructing Montes to bank left. They both came up, then suddenly went back to hover mode, floating there at one thousand feet, on either side of the column of Irken craft as they advanced.

"Irken craft, this is United States Air Force Fighter Siren, do you copy, over?"

Gaz's pulse raced.

"Here they come," Said Montes.

Tactical data links transmitted every reading from the instruments onboard their fighters back to Igloo Base and to every USAF tactical and strategic command post on the planet via the satellite links. At any time, any operations XO could tap in to her cockpit to see what she was doing.

That Mr. Network Centric Big Brother was always watching did unnerve Gaz, and there had been lots of talking among pilots deliberately switching off certain systems at certain times. Since the war had broken out, the concept of Network Centric Operations (NCO) had proven a first step at dissipating some instances of the "fog of war," in which communication breakdowns and poor information handling resulted in heavy losses. However, when misinformation _did_ get into the system, it flowed like a virus and was hard to stop.

For now, though, the information coming at Gaz was pretty damned obvious and accurate. The Irkens had no intentions of stopping.

"Irken craft, this is United States Air Force Fighter Siren. You have crossed into Canadian airspace and are instructed to turn back immediately, over."

Gaz waited a moment, then repeated the same instructions in Irken. Her language skills weren't great, but her pronunciation was clear enough for them to understand- if they were willing to listen.

She also wondered about the Canadian response. They had proven their Military might when the Irkens had underestimated them as the most neutral place on Earth, they had developed Military power over the years, and oh how wrong the Irkens were to think that they hadn't.

"Igloo Base, this is Siren, over."

"Go ahead, Siren."

"We buzzed the Irken craft and are hovering at one thousand as they approach. No response to our requests, over."

"Roger that, Siren, just maintain-"

"Siren!" Cried Montes. "Rockets incoming. Jesus-"

Out of the corner of her eye, Gaz caught the flash of bright light, and just as she throttled up- more unguided rockets shooting out green sparks from their tails fired from the lead transports tore through her wake.

"Siren, this is Ghost Hawk! Jesus, damn it, I'm hit! I'm hit! Got a fire. Electrical failures. Damage to the left wing. Losing control!"

"Eject! Eject!"

Gaz climbed over the swarm of Irken craft to look down upon the scene, spotting Montes' fighter beginning to drop like a rock, nose tipping down.

"Montes, get out of there!"

He was at about one hundred and fifty knots when a tiny flash erupted, and the canopy tumbled away. Then the ejection seat fired, and out came Montes, with approximately eight hundred feet between him and the ground below.

Gaz wished she had time to see if he were okay, but the rage inside- awakened by the audacity of these Irkens- launched her into action. She wheeled around, brought the jet into another hover, pivoted toward the craft.

'_Speed and maneuver. Speed and maneuver...'_

She had missile lock. There was no thinking it over or calling to base for authorization. And there were no second thoughts.

The two wingtip mounted AIM-9X Sidewinder missiles exploded away from her jet, using a passive IR target acquisition system to home in on infrared emissions. They each raced toward two of the lead transports, leaving glowing white tendrils in their wake.

"Igloo Base, this is Siren. Ghost Hawk has ejected! Can't see if he's on the ground yet! I've engaged the Irkens, over!"

"Roger that, Siren."

Twin booms shone in her display, the fireballs expanding then plummeting toward the icy deck.

Two craft down.

Thirty eight to go.

She'd exhaust everything she had, she didn't care.

But first she had to find Montes, see if he made it, and if he did, be sure those bastards weren't trying to finish the job.

His beacon shone in one of her displays, as the craft below scattered like bees being swatted, spreading out, gaining altitude, while a few pilots descended even lower.

Two Spittlerunners banked hard, coming around to engage her as she hovered above them.

Rockets flashed from their side pods. She rolled to her left, even as she engaged her four barrelled GAU-22/A gun mounted in a teardrop pod along the jets aft centre pylon, the four barrels bound in one spinning cylinder.

Armor piercing discarding sabot with tracer rounds leapt out ahead of her fighter at a rate of forty two hundred per minute, chewing into the first runners canopy amid a flurry of sparks and the laser like streaks drawn by the tracers.

She shifted fire to the next runner, more rounds drumming along its side as the pilot attempted to evade. The first runner began to fall away, out of control, smoke pouring from the shattered cock pit. And suddenly, the second one joined the first, rolling away, trailing more smoke.

She carried only two hundred and twenty rounds of ammo for the gun despite its cyclic rate of fire, and she had already blown through half. Damn it. The cost if being trigger happy.

There were two more Sidewinders in her internal bays, along with two AGM-154 Joint Standoff Weapons for hitting hardened surface targets. She also had a pair of five hundred pound JDAM bombs under the wings, but they wouldn't help unless those craft put down. Finally, she had a pair of laser guided training rounds they were supposed to use in a couple of days. Montes' fighter had crashed just ahead, the flames still soaring skyward; he had drifted downwind about a half kilometer farther south.

"Ghost Hawk, this is Siren, over?"

No response.

"Igloo Base, this is Siren. No contact from Ghost Hawk on the ground. Four craft engaged and destroyed, over."

"Roger that, Siren. You're ordered to return to base, over."

"Negative Igloo Base. I'm not leaving until I can confirm if Ghost Hawk made it or not, over."

"Stand by, Siren..."

Well, she'd stand by, all right, but not without unleashing her last two Sidewinders.

Two runners, now much more spread apart, maintained their southerly course, a speckled field of potential targets glowing on her display.

"Here you go," She whispered. "Eat this."

Dinner was, in fact, served, a late night course of explosives delivered with blinding efficiency.

The bay doors swung open, and the rockets spat from the warplanes belly, soaring through the night.

She throttled up once more, dove, and came in for a final run with the guns-

Even as the two Sidewinders slammed into their targets, sending debris and flaming bodies hurtling outward in all directions.

Not liking her current angle, she drove the stick left, banking hard, the fighter riding the cold air as though racing on rails. She came back around, diving once more, and squeezed the trigger, targeting another runner from behind until its engine flared and died.

Then she ceased fire, lined up on the next bird and squeezed the trigger, more rounds streaking away. But in a few seconds, the gun went dead, out of ammo, and the transport was still flying.

"USAF fighter craft, this is American Eagle, over."

Gaz gasped. She knew that call sign but could hardly believe it. The President of the United States was on the radio.

"American Eagle, this is Siren, go ahead, over."

"Lieutenant Colonel, what am I looking at here?"

Before she was able to answer, three Canadian Royal Air Force F/A-18 Hornets blasted by her and were gone as quick as they had come, balls of fire erupted in the clusters of Irken craft as they engaged.

"Sir, those blips on the screen are approximately thirty to forty Irken Spittlerunners and transports on a southerly heading. Those fast movers are Canadian Air Force fighters that have just arrived on scene. I've taken out seven of those Irken craft, damaged an eighth, but I've exhausted my ammo. They fired upon us first, sir. I lost my wingman, who ejected, and I want to fly over the crash site and see if he made it."

"Can you do that without losing your bird?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you've got my permission. Colonel, you're looking at them. What do you think they're up to?"

"Sir, I honestly have no idea."

"Roger that, Colonel. Good work. I hope your wing man made it."

"Thank you, sir, Siren out."

She shuddered as she realized she had just had a conversation with the president! Damn, whatever was happening had to be huge.

With a hard blink, she brought herself back to the moment. The enemy craft passed over the crash site and continued on as she descended behind them, homing in on Montes' beacon.

She slowed as she got on top of the signal, spotted one chute, tangled and whipping in the breeze, still attached to the ejection seat. She wheeled around once more and slowed to a complete hover, keeping a wary on the radar while searching for Montes and his chute.

Three more Canadian fighters zipped by to engage the Irkens, the fighters were followed by a Lockheed C-130 with duel anti air weapons strapped to the top, opening up in a brilliant stream of tracer and armor piercing rounds.

"Ghost Hawk, this is Siren, over."

_Come on, Jake. Be there..._

(End chapter)


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

After President Becerra, the first Hispanic Chief Executive Officer of the United States of America, finished speaking with that fighter pilot up in the Northwest Territories, he took a video call from the Canadian Prime Minister, Robert Emerson. He'd met Emerson on several occasions.

Becerra was taken aback by Emerson's immediate hostility.

"Just what the hell is going on up there, Mr. President!?"

"I don't have any details yet. What I do know is that forty Irken transports are moving south toward Yellowknife. They fired on two of our fighters training up there. In the meantime, they knocked out a couple of out satellites over the Arctic, and I've lost contact with one of my Aeries Class Battle Cruisers up there."

"And now they're coming back..."

"Prime minister, it's not a coincidence that they're moving toward Alberta. I told you this day would rise once more," Becerra reminded him.

"And I told you I wouldn't allow it," Emerson snapped.

"Nearly more then a decade ago, you became the worlds leading supplier in oil after the Russians were almost completely destroyed by Irken bombardment, it is with no doing they're after the resources you have."

"I don't believe it."

"Prime Minister, how long did you think the Irkens were going to let you keep control of those supplies? If this is the prelude to a major invasion, then you've got every important decision to make. But I'll say this: it is in the best interests of the United States to have you in charge of those reserves. If the Irkens attempt to take that power from you, I'll have no choice to send in my troops. Join us," Becerra urged.

"Mr. President I don't mean to-"

"Prime Minister, turning on each other is exactly what the Irkens want us to do. It's exactly what they tried to do between us and the Euros."

"If I allow you on my soil, they'll consider that aiding and abetting."

"And if you don't?"

Emerson sighed explosively. The prime Minister raked his fingers through his thinning white hair. "Mr. President, please keep me informed the minute you know more."

"Of course. And if you want to mobilize your Military, I'm sure no one would stop you."

"One more thing, Mr. President. If the Irkens are coming in by air, they had to have used carriers or some other ships."

"That's why in trying to reestablish contact with my cruiser. They might be able to confirm that."

"Meaning your cruiser was operating illegally in our air."

"Let's not go there. The debate between whether the Northwest Passage airs are international or Canadian is irrelevant right now. There are only four words that are important to us: the Irkens are coming."

"Mr. President,"

Chief of Staff Lambert called from across the aisle. "Sorry to interrupt you, but General Kennedy is on the line." Lambert's expression said it all.

"Mr. Prime Minister, I have to go, but myself or a member of my staff will update you as soon as we know more."

With that, Becerra, ended the call and switched to the other video line. "You don't look happy, General."

"No, sir. It seems we're backed into a corner on this one. We've attempted several different scenarios, but at this point, the ANGELS satellite has attached itself to the ISS (International Space Station). No communication at all from the crew inside. We suspect the Irkens have already killed the Japanese and Brazilian crew members. The ISS will be within range of one of our kinetic energy platforms in approximately fifteen minutes. The Irkens could destroy that platform," He pointed out. Unnecessary.

"Understood."

"All I need is authorization from you."

Becerra rubbed the corner of his eyes, took a deep breath. "You have it General. Take out the station."

"Yes, sir. I'll connect you into the platforms cameras."

Lambert came over and stood behind Becerra.

"I'm sorry, Mr. President."

"For what?"

"For this difficult decision you had to make."

"It's cut and dried now, Mike."

Voices of the ANGELS satellite controllers sounded in the background as an image of the ISS, floating over the blue globe of Earth, dominated the screen. They had a spectacular view of the station and listened as one controller, in a cool, even voice finished his sentence with the words, "... And detonate..."

A small flash came from the underside of the station, followed by a much larger, more orange explosion haloed in white hot specs.

The stations, long rectangular arrays, perhaps it's more prominent and memorable feature, suddenly broke away and begun tumbling end over end, as the rest of the laboratories and connecting modules began their own strangely graceful ballet, moving with underwater slowness in the vacuum of space.

General Kennedy returned to the screen. "Sir, the threat has been eliminated. Now I suggest we turn our attention to the next one."

"Those craft up in Canada."

"That's right. But sir, we count more then sixty heavy transport craft with escort fighters lifting off from every air base along the east coast of the country. Could be one or more brigades, with accompanying vehicles. We believe they'll put down just north of Alberta."

"Let's get some fighters to stop them."

"There are far too many aircraft, and many of our units in Alaska have been deployed to Europe. The squadrons we do have are already in the air."

Becerra held back a curse. "Red and Purple have been working on this one for a long time, carefully weakening us, spreading us out too far."

"Well, as we like to say, Mr. President, the balloon is going up. At the very least, we'd like to get boys from the Tenth Mountain up there, along with some Marines from Pendleton. And we have a Stryker Brigade in Alaska we'll bring down, along with another one we'll bring from Fort Lewis, so long as you can work our deal with the Prime Minister."

"What about air strikes?"

"They'll have limited effect, because if we're right, the Irkens will be attempting to seize key infrastructure, pipelines, refineries, and so on, intact. We can't risk damaging those facilities, so for the most part, we'll be on the ground, with close air support at our shoulders. We'll need to hold back on the bombers and kinetic energy weapons as our last resorts."

"I think the Prime Minister would agree."

He smiled crookedly. "Mr. President, I also have to point out the Irkens could cut off their noses to spite their faces, figuratively speaking of course."

"You mean if they can't control the Alberta reserves-"

"They'll destroy them. In fact, if those inbound Irken aircraft were bombers, we'd assume that's the mission. Still could be."

"General, can we do this? Can we fight this war on multiple fronts and put more people in Canada?"

"We think so, sir. And remember, the Irkens are further dividing their own forces to continue their push. But the key is the Prime Minister. If you can get him to commit his forces, we'll be in a lot better shape."

"We can only wait and hope that's a possibility."

"Yes, sir. In the meantime, we'll get the fighters we can in the air to disrupt those incoming aircraft."

"Good. You know, I just spoke to an F-35B pilot operating out of a little base north of Yellowknife. She took out more then half a dozen of those Irken craft. I want her up there."

"I'll make sure of it, sir."

(End chapter)


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Lieutenant Colonel Gaz spotted Montes lying in the snow, not far from the ejection seat, half covered by the drogue chute. He'd unbuckled, crawled a few meters in the snow, and collapsed. He wasn't moving.

Now she wouldn't just fly over, trying to figure out if he was alive or dead. As she wouldn't tell Igloo Base what he was doing. With the Irken craft still not far off, they would never authorize such an action. They had just ordered her back to refuel and rearm.

Of course she would comply, eventually, but she couldn't live with herself of she abandoned Jake. She'd rather take the risk, which was, damn it, risking everything. And God help her, she set down in the snow, landed the multimillion dollar bird, leaving her entirely vulnerable to air attack.

It took her another minute to detach herself from the cockpit, remove her helmet, and finally get down to the snow.

The icy wind stung her cheek, and it looked as though a storm was coming.

"Jake!" She jogged toward him, the top layer of snow breaking into glistening puzzle pieces that rose to her ankles.

She reached him, slowly rolled him over, and worked on getting his helmet off. Finally, it gave. His nose had been bleeding and left cheek was beginning to swell.

"Jake, can you hear me? It's Gaz."

His eyes flickered open. "I want to puke."

"It's good to see you too."

He swallowed. "I'm so embarrassed. I don't know what happened. It was like a dream... They fired rockets!"

"I know, Jake."

"Wait a minute. What the hell? You landed?" He suddenly sat up, looked at her plane, the engine still humming.

"Jesus, Colonel!"

The ejection seat had a built in survival kit that was now connected to his chute. Ignoring him, she fetched it, brought it back over.

"Can you move?"

"I'm just banged up. I don't think anything's broken."

"Think you can fly?"

"What the hell you talking about?"

"I want you to take her back. Rescue helo is already on the way. I'll catch it."

"Gaz, you're not thinking right. You don't just put an injured pilot back in the cockpit."

She looked at him, thought about how wired to panic she was, how full of rage, the tremors still working into her hands.

"Okay, yeah. You'll be all right?"

"I'm okay." He glanced over to the still burning wreckage of his fighter. "My flying career just went up in flames, but I'm okay..."

"You're not done yet. Not if I have anything to say about it. Just hang tight." She pulled out her personal defense weapon/ rifle (PDW-R), a small, compact weapon that fired 5.56mm rounds. And handed it to him.

"Now you've got two."

"If they come back, this won't matter."

She knew that, too, but pushed it back in his hand, forcing him to take the weapon. "Rescue will be here soon."

She started back toward her fighter. And once she was strapped in and lifting off, the news that came from Igloo base took her breath away.

* * *

The USRAN (United States Royal Air Navy) _Olympia's_ radio room, immediately aft, starboard side of the Aeries Class Battle Cruisers command, control, communications, and intelligence (C31) space, made it easy for the radioman on watch to stick his head into the passageway and announce, "ELF traffic," Even as Commander John Andreas watched the extremely low frequency (ELF) call light start to blink incessantly on his Q-70 display console, accompanied by a steady beeping.

"Finally," Andreas said through a deep sigh. He pressed the acknowledge button, stopping both beep and flash, then stepped across to the port side of C31 and placed his hand on the sonar operator's shoulder.

"Give me a careful three hundred and sixty degree listening sweep."

Catching the officer on the decks eye, he continued.

"If we're all clear, open the shutters on the main window."

"Aye, aye, sir," Responded the OOD.

Andreas had done as he and the XO had discussed. They had sprinted out of the immediate area, pinged the satellites transponder- and had received no response for their effort. And that left Andreas standing there in the control room wanting to pummel someone.

In the time it took them to complete the acoustic sweep, open the main shutters, and extend their main view screen optical zoom to confirm no contacts in the immediate vicinity, the second character of the ELF message had arrived on board. It matched the second of the _Olympia's_ three assigned ELF call letters.

"Captain, there's still no operational traffic from that satellite," Said the Senior Chief radio man. "GPS is coming through okay. The clincher for me, sir, is that the ELF data rate. That's about the speed of the old _Michigan_ ELF transmitter. Their big bird in the sky is dead. I'll stake a promotion to Master Chief Petty Officer on that, sir."

"Roger that, Senior Chief. XO, round up all the Iridium satellite phones and make sure they're fully charged. We're going to execute my last plan, the one I didn't tell you about."

"Sir, are you serious? We're going to call on the satellite phones?"

"Well, it ain't pretty, but it's all I got. It's time to phone home."

Andreas stepped aft to the Radio Room, poked his head inside and said, "Senior Chief, I'll bet you a shiny new set of silver eagles off my collar that you'll continue to get ELF transmissions until we figure out how to talk to COMPACFLT."

* * *

Admiral Dylan Stinson glanced up as his aide appeared in the little window on his computer screen. "Admiral Harrison for you, sir."

Stinson accepted the call, and the window switched to Harrison in his office. "Chuck, what have you got?"

"Well, even though _Michigan's_ up, Andreas will be extremely curious about breaking radio silence. It goes against everything he's been taught. But when that silence becomes deafening, as it is now, he'll run through his options."

"We put the same four line text message on every satellite phone on board."

"And Andreas' wife assures me he'll understand the message."

"All right. He just needs to receive it. Thanks, Chuck. We've run it up the flagpole, let's see who wants to salute it. All we can do is wait."

* * *

Back on the bridge of the _Olympia_, Andreas reminded his XO that they needed enough speed to maintain their altitude but no more. They didn't want the engines to create a visible wake by leaving a fuel trail like commercial jets did in the skies.

Andreas turned and regarded his communications officer. "Dan, you take two sat phones, and I'll carry two. We turn all four on just before we open the hatch in the ceiling, then we head up to get a signal. We're looking for a text message- that's all. We aren't ready to transmit anything. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

Andreas looked intently at the young Lieutenant. "Do you remember what else I told you?"

"Yes, sir. Whatever I see on the display, write it down."

"Good man, lets go."

* * *

Nine minutes later, the _Olympia_ was completely below radar again, banked starboard around a mountain, prepared to level off at five hundred and thirty eight feet, and coming to course one six zero.

All four cell phone text messages read the same: URGENT-CALL COMPACFLT/8085553956/3672

Any Air Navy crew member home ported at Arcadia would recognize the 808 prefix as the Honolulu area code. The COMPACFLT acronym didn't read any explanation.

"But sir, how do we verify?" Asked the XO.

"Oh, the message is authentic," Replied Andreas. "See those last four digits? Only my wife and the Honolulu National Bank know my PIN number. Good thing she picked that and not our anniversary date."

"I hear that, Skipper."

Andreas' expression and tone grew more serious. "Now, XO, lets raise our altitude again and make the call."

"Aye aye, sir."

(End chapter)


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Major General Tak sat in the back of a Ringcutter with communications gear, making it a makeshift mobile command post. She was returning to the lunar base they had set on the Earths moon after an earlier evacuation due to a bomb threat.

Tak was about to access the Irken Main Intelligence Directorate tactical data base for the latest report when Major Klar called via universal communication probe, every Irken had the device installed into their PAK. Tak tapped a key on her notebook computer to take the call.

Klar had been reassigned to their latest battlefront, his cheeks slightly red from the cold, clearly on the screen.

"The first transports are on the ground," He began, raising his voice, breathing heavily in the frigid air.

"Excellent, Major."

Behind him, in the darkness, Tak could barely make out some DMOV-3s, their 100mm heavy plasma guns making them resemble tanks, rolling down the ramps of two of the transports, set down on the frozen, snow covered ground of the Northwest Territories. Dozens of Imperial Troopers scrambled to prepare each vehicle once it was on the ground under the steady hum and wash of the transport ships colossal engines.

Klar grinned. "I have more good news. Our transports have landed in Behchoko, and operations have begun there."

Tak tapped the screen and brought up the maps.

Behchoko was located on the northwest tip of Great Slave Lake, about seventy six kilometers from the much larger town of Yellowknife. The road between them Highway 3, which ran south from Behchoko, then became Highway 1 until it crossed the territorial line of Alberta, where it changed to Highway 35 and ran into the town of High Level.

Because of the winter conditions, Klar's ground forces were forced to use the main roads; thus, controlling them and the small towns was imperative.

"I'm told that our men will secure the refinery and avgas depot before sunrise. They're already setting up the first road block. Have a look."

The night vision images piped into Taks screen came from the helmet cameras of Elite infantry and were grainy and shifting quickly, but it was clear they'd used one of the Spittlerunners to block the road, along with a confiscated SUV and a pickup truck. Shouts and plasma fire boomed from somewhere behind the roadblock, violet streaks soaring through the dark.

"There are only about two companies of Canadian soldiers there, adequately armed as we noted. I expect some complications, but we'll push through, General."

"Don't get too cocky, Major. You haven't confronted the Canadians in your time here, and I see here that only a small number of transports have landed. The others will soon be engaged by more Canadian and American fighters."

"What do the Americans say? I am cautiously optimistic?" Klar chuckled loudly. "I predict much blood will flow. I predict we will be drinking the finest of Irken liquor within the bars of Edmonton and Calgary within a week and the resource reserves will be ours for the taking!" His laugh now bordered with a cackle.

Tak sighed. Major Klar was an unconventional operations specialist at best, a cocky thug at worst. Yes, he was a keen analyst of battles, able to spot and exploit an enemy's weakness with speed and proficiency, but he always seemed slightly unhinged, a little mad, even. He rarely referred to superior officers by rank and seemed suspicious of them, especially Tak.

That Klar had led forces in the first Earth invasion from 2016 to 2019 and celebrated several key victories was admirable. That he'd had his left leg blown off by a Russian rocket propelled grenade, which had rendered him ineligible for active combat duty, was unfortunate.

However, his talent for planning and directing operations remotely was as unexpected as it was valuable, and Zim had insisted that Klar be sent to Canada to coordinate operations in the northern areas of Alberta, especially seizing the town of High Level. So Zim had him approved for a mechanical leg, most Irkens with mechanical limbs were put behind a desk instead of sent back into the front lines or command posts.

But the Irken had a temper, and his dangerous instability caused him to be passed over for promotions. Although two hundred and twenty one, he was still as brash as an Irken in his training days at times, and Tak found herself repeatedly cautioning the Irken, as she did now.

"Major, continue your good and _cautious_ work for the Empire."

"Of course. What else would you have me do?"

"And know we will be _carefully_ monitoring your progress."

Klar nodded, then, sans any goodbye, he whirled away from the camera and limped off on his artificial leg, shouting at the Irkens unloading the DMOV-3s that they weren't fast enough and that he would shoot them if they didn't hurry.

Well, so far, the operation was unfolding as planned, and based upon the enemy's initial response, it seemed Chieftain Major General Zim had somehow managed to keep silent.

Tak could not understand that- unless, of course, the Americans had accidentally killed the General, for Tak refused to believe that one Irken's force of will could be that strong.

Or could it?

* * *

Soldiers at Fort Lewis were pumped with adrenaline, and United States Marine Corps Staff Sergeant Dib Membrane was no exception. He was about to leave his barracks and head to Robert Gray Army Airfield, his load out bag sling over his shoulders.

In the hall outside his room, he spotted Sergeant Dax Rarik rushing toward him. "Yo, Dib, I just heard, man!"

"Yeah, I know, it's crazy."

"Why couldn't they invade someplace warm?"

"The Irkens can't take the heat."

Rarik nodded then raised his brows. "Maybe we'll bump into some of the bunnies up there, eh?"

"So you're going too?"

"The brigade's already got a quartering party heading up to start RSOI base ops."

Establishing a reception, staging, onward movement and interrogation base, which included all the support facilities the brigade would need to operate, was the first step to moving 3,900 folks riding in more than 300 Stryker vehicles up to Canada. Once those facilities were established and artillery had arrived, the infantry would roll in and begin operations.

Rarik added, "I just heard they've called up the Fourth in Alaska, so those Strykers will be rolling down. I heard another rumor that a brigade from the Tenth Mountain Division is heading up in about sixty sorties of C-17s. They'll establish the first blocking positions."

"And what are the Canadians doing about all this?"

Dib flashed with a crooked grin.

Rarik pretended to think hard. "Arming themselves."

"I thought so. Well, good hunting then, huh?"

Rarik slapped a palm on Dibs shoulder. "I just wanted to give you this before you go."

"Oh, man, don't do that."

Dib stared down to the closed knife in Rariks other hand; it was a balisong, or Filipino "butterfly knife," with two handles that counter rotated around the tang and concealed the blade with then when not in use.

Only this wasn't an ordinary balisong.

This was Rariks prized possession: a custom Venturi made of intricately patterned Damascus steel with black lip pearl inlays in the handles. It was as much a piece of art as it was a functional cutting tool, and it has been designed and crafted by famed knife maker Darrel Ralph.

"Dib, I'm giving this to you for two reasons: first, if one of us is going to make it, it's going to be you. I believe that. And second, I'm just tired of carrying it."

Dib shook his head. He didn't believe a word of it. And in a world full of high tech toys, it was ironic that they should be standing there, discussing the exchange of a knife. Nevertheless, he took the balisong and slid it into one of his hip pockets. "You're too much, Dax. I'll borrow it. Give it back to you when we get back, if we're not all frostbitten by then."

"All right, you got a deal. Good luck up there. And if you boys need any real men to come bail out your sorry asses, just give me and Appleman a call on the cell, Kay?"

Dib snorted, raised his fist to meet Rarik for a pound. Then he muttered quick, "See ya," And jogged off.

* * *

Major Jake Montes spotted the rescue choppers searchlight across the snow, so he sat up and began to wave them in. He wouldn't miss the unforgiving cold or the sight of his beautiful fighter plane burning in the distance.

The blood had frozen on his lips and chin, and he could barely feel his cheeks. He slowly, carefully, got up as the chopper turned and pitched its nose for the landing.

Montes' heart sank.

The searchlight had blinded him, and he'd only seen a vague silhouette in the sky.

Now he saw it, he had mistaken the Spittlerunner for a CH-46, setting down with heavily armed Imperial Troopers hopping down from the bay door.

Montes had two personal defense weapons now, one in each hand; he charged back to the ejection seat and threw himself down behind it, then came back up and began firing at the oncoming troopers.

He struck one trooper in the leg, caught another in the thigh, as they suddenly raked his position with so much fire that he could no long hear the roaring of the engines, only echoing bang and subsequent splashes of plasma bolts on the metal.

He keyed the mic of his emergency radio. "This is Ghost Hawk on the ground! I'm being engaged by Irken infantry! What's the ETA on that rescue bird!?"

A sudden nearby thump made him whirl.

Plasma grenade. Right there.

He sprang up, knew that if he ran backward, they'd simply gun him down.

So he did what any other red blooded American fighter pilot would do: he ran directly at the troopers, screaming and firing his weapons in full auto.

The grenade exploded behind him, knocking him to his chest. That was when the first stabs of pain came, when he realized he'd been shot- and not just once.

He glanced up at the Irkens, cursed as one came over, raised his PDW.

Gaz's voice was coming from the radio. He should have told her how he felt, should have told her what she meant to him. But at least now, at the end, he had that music, that sweet music of her crying out.

* * *

As Lieutenant Colonel Gaz Membrane lifted off, her eyes burning with the knowledge Jake was dead.

She'd been monitoring the radio, had listened to his transmission. She wanted more than anything to streak back there and finished off the Irkens who had killed him. But it was too late now.

The skies above the Northwest Territories were alive with incoming transports and fighters, by the hundreds, at least three dozen Canadian F-18s and mixed C-130s engaging, Gaz and the other pilots training at Igloo Base had been tasked with getting up there and assisting in the intercept with the Canadians, all while attempting to evade detection from more nearby fighters, impossible.

There wouldn't be much dog fights- just a standoff surgical removal of those lumbering transports. But she kept her thoughts focused on the task. She kept telling herself that she shouldn't have been so distant from him, that she could sense how he'd felt about her, that she, too, had felt the same.

She raced into the heavens, going supersonic, moving into her standoff position to begin launching missiles at the transports, now at 28,450 feet and descending rapidly.

A check of the transports range revealed they were about fifteen kilometers away, within Sidewinder's killing zone. Her electronic counter measures- including the jamming of enemy radar systems- were fully engaged. And her first two missiles were locked on.

Her wingman, Captain Lisa Nantz, call sign Sapphire, announced that she, too, was locked up and ready to fire. The other two USAF fighters were already engaging the enemy.

Gaz opened her mouth and have the order-

Just as the alarms went off in her cockpit.

Incoming enemy missiles launched from Irken Steel Slicer long range interceptors. The sleek, more aerodynamic craft were created in the second Earth invasion to combat human fighter jets. She already had the angle of arrival.

The computer identified the missiles as Irken "Hedgehog" cruise missiles, the latest incarnation of Irks short range, air to air missile, considered by most combat pilots to be one of the universes most formidable weapons.

"Sapphire, abort launch! We got incoming. Check countermeasures. IR flares and chaff! Evade!"

(End chapter)


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

In February 2006, Marine Corps Special Operation Command (MARSOC) was activated, which in effect made Force Recon Marines an official part of the US Special Operations Command (SOCOM) team along with other Specials Operations units- SEALS, Rangers, Army Special Forces, and Special Tactics teams. MARSOC was fully constituted in 2010 and became part of the Joint Strike Force at that time as well.

Consequently, when the Irkens began their move into Canada, MARSOC was among the first to get the call. And that particular call had funneled down through command Staff Sergeant Ray Harper, who was now sprinting back to his two story barracks to get packed up and get the hell out of Southern California, bound for the Northwest Territories, more than two thousand miles away.

Elements from the 13th Marine Corps Expeditionary Unit (MEU) were being deployed from Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton up to Alberta. They were pumped full of lightning and ready to crack and boom onto the scene. The only thing missing from all the excitement was Jonesy.

And his absence was sorely felt by the five remaining members of the Force Recon team: Harper, Tristan, Szymanski, Fritz and Gis.

Five minutes prior, Harper and the rest of the Outlaws had been listening to their Company Commander, Colonel Stack, going over the warning order; the CO singled out Harper's team to spearhead the company's reconnaissance operations.

Marine Corps brass, along with the CIA, believed that the Irkens would move a large ground force, maybe even a couple of brigades, into several areas of Alberta. They would take the town of High Level and use it as a staging area, and would also move down Highway 63 in the eastern part of Alberta toward Fort McMurray and the Athabasca Oil Sands north of "Fort Mac."

Much to Harper's chagrin, his new assistant team leader, Sergeant Reilly Scott, had to open his dumb ass mouth and ask what was meant by "oil sands." The CO loved to hear himself talk and loved to impress everyone with his attention to details, whether they put you to sleep or not. That he didn't have a PowerPoint presentation was the only saving grace.

So they got the one minute lecture about oil sands, a mixture of crude bitumen (a semisolid form of crude oil), silica sand, clay minerals, and water. The CO even knew that the bitumen was used by the aboriginals back in the day to waterproof their canoes. Point was, the oil sands could be turned into real, usable oil, and the Irkens wanted control of all of the reserves.

But they wouldn't get them- not if United States Marines and Canadian Infantry stood in their path.

Once Harper and his boys arrived in Alberta, they would chopper way up Highway 63, establish a reconnaissance post, deploy two robo-soldiers that would controlled by human operators, and confirm where lead elements of the enemy force were heading.

They were a small piece of a much larger defensive dubbed Operation Slay the Dragon by the CIA, an operation that included all branches of the U.S., Canadian and European Federation armed forces, with the Euros and some of the Canadians focusing on the Major city of Edmonton.

Now, back in his barracks, a shirtless Sergeant Scott approached Harper, cocked a brow, all twenty tattoos visible. "Hey, Ray, you got a minute?"

"If this is about what we discussed earlier-"

"Look, man, you set me straight. I'm so squared away that if you brush against me, my corners will cut you."

"Nice."

"But I'll never be Jonesy. Nobody will. Just want you to know that I'm giving you a hundred and ten percent. Always, sir."

"We'll see how long it takes for you to create your own shadow. And I hope it's a pretty long one. The other thing is, I got about eight, nine years on you. In my book, that makes me old school." Harper reached out and punched one of this tattoos. "Maybe the Corps's gotten a little soft on this crap since you hide them under your shirt, but I haven't."

"I'll have them lasered, Sergeant- if they bother you that much."

"I just want to be sure we're on the same page."

"We are. Good. Now, don't forget to pack an extra sock."

"Huh?"

"Our suits have all those fancy micro climate conditioning subsystems, but if the suit fails, you and your family jewels will be glad you got that sock. Trust me."

Scott grinned. "I hear that, Sergeant."

Harper turned and looked the man straight in the eye, then proffered his hand. "The last time I met the Irkens, they couldn't help but fall to their knees and bleed."

"I hope I have the same effect on them."

They shook firmly, then Scott rushed off to pack. Harper returned to inventorying his gear. He fetched a picture of him and Jonesy from his footlocker and slipped it in his ruck. They'd been pretty drunk that night, and Jonesy had been the one to get Harper home. He was like that. Dependable beyond belief. And Harper had to get it into his head that though no one could replace Jonesy, he had to give Sergeant Scott, tattoos and all, a chance.

At least the spirit of Jonesy would be heading up into the Great White North, along with the spirit of the Corps.

Whenever they went into the battle, every man who had ever been a Marine went with them.

* * *

With white hot chaff flashing beside her wings, Lieutenant Colonel Gaz Membrane took her F-35B fighter into another dive, rolling as she did so, then banked sharply to the right, cutting a deep chamfer in the air.

Her pressure suit compensated for what would've been excruciating g-forces, keeping the blood from pooling in her legs, yet still she felt the usual and sometimes even welcome discomfort.

One Hedgehog cruise missile took the bait and exploded somewhere above her; she didn't waste time to check its exact location because the other one was still locked on. Utilizing all of the jet's sensors and the helmet mounted display, Gaz was able to look down through her knees, though the actual structure of the aircraft, and spot the cruise missile coming up from below.

She punched the chaff again.

Then killed the engine and let the fighter drop away like an unlucky mallard during hunting season. The only problem was, the Hedgehog had been designed to "see" whole images rather than just single points of infrared radiation like the heat from her engine.

So that Hedgehog cruise missile with its "potato masher" fins had a decision to make: detonate it's thirty kilograms of high explosive, rapid eruption, super heated plasma in the chaff or continue on to Gaz.

With her breath held, she watched as the missile penetrated the chaff cloud-

And kept on coming.

She cursed, fired up the engine, then started straight for the transports still glowing in her multifunction display.

_Okay, steady. Okay._

She pressed a finger against the touch screens, viewing a much clearer, close up image of the nearest aircraft. She tapped another button, and target designation and weapons status imagery appeared in her HMD. She closed in, the target now being automatically tracked, the crosshairs in her visor locking on the transport.

_If I get taken out of the fight, I'm bringing a couple of you with me._

She tightened her fist, pressed the button.

Missile away. She pressed again. Missile number two streaked off a second before the first.

The radar alarm still going off. And there it was, a glowing dot. You didn't need a key to the display symbols to know what that one meant: death.

"Sapphire, this is Siren, can't shake my last missile, over."

"Yes you can, Siren! Chaff again! Come on!"

_Aw, what the hell_. She popped more chaff then broke into a diving roll that would have left most nuggets barfing in their helmets. And what kind of miracle was that? The damned missile took the bait and exploded in a beautiful conflagration, the dark clouds traced by the magnificent blue light.

"Sister, I'm listening to you next time." Gaz cried. "And here comes another pair of transports. Let's get em'. I want to head back to Igloo empty, refuel, rearm, and do it all over again!"

A Canadian C-130 escorted by three F-18s passed by their frontal field of view. The twin anti air M61 Vulcan guns up top firing their armor piercing tungsten rounds with discarding sabot at 4,500 rounds a minute, bringing down one of the transports and a few Spittlerunners in the process. The larger 40mm Bofors cannon discharged four rounds. Gaz could imagine the Irken pilots in that other transport laughing and saying how pathetic the human gunners aim was, until the fourth round landed its mark, destroying the entire right engine on that transport and sending it to the ground in a flaming wreck.

"Roger that!"

Gaz shut her eyes for just a second.

_Jake, if you can hear me, then you know what I'm thinking..._

* * *

Major Katrina Parsons couldn't afford to leave her CIA command post in Tampa and was closely monitoring the data coming in to her from Alaska, where the 11th Air Force and 3rd Wing from Eielson had scrambled to intercept the Irken transports, along with that handful of USAF fighters whose pilots had been training in the Northwest Territories.

She couldn't leave, but she shuddered with the desire to do so, to travel back to Gitmo and question Zim again.

However, she had arranged the next best thing- a video conference with the prisoner. And, despite her better judgement, she stole away to a private conference room for ten minutes to speak one last time with Chieftain Major General Zim.

She thought maybe she could put the demons to rest and begin to actually sleep.

The General looked even more haggard than the last time she had seen him, half of his right antenna was actually missing, and it seemed an effort for him to keep his head upright. His eyes failed to focus, then finally he blinked and leaned forward, too close to the camera, then threw his head back and suddenly laughed like the mad man people made him out to be.

"General, stop it."

After another few seconds, he composed himself and said, "I'm sorry, Major. I just... I can see that look in your eyes. So, are we happy with the information I gave you? Because you don't look very happy."

"No, we're perfectly fine with it."

His expression grew serious. "You're bluffing."

"You cried like a baby General. Or should I say like a smeet? I know exactly what operation 2659 is and exactly who Sneg AKA The Empress is, all right?"

"So then, why have you interrupted my vacation?"

Parsons took a deep breath. Yep, she was bluffing. She haven't learned a damned thing- the bastard was the most highly skilled and resistant prisoner the interrogators had ever encountered. In fact, at this point, they swore he knew nothing...

But Parsons refused to believe that. "I just thought it would be in your best interests to formally defect. That way, you would enjoy the benefits of such a decision."

"You don't know anything!" He snapped. ", Do you Major? You ran 2659 through every database in the world, compared the number to other operations, thought it might be an address, a date, a model number for the memory chip of a computer. You've had experts from every government agency looking at it, people trained to study ciphers, even that agent from the CIA who swears he decrypted the messages on that statue outside the office in Langley. What's it called? Kryptos? Yes... But you know nothing- or rather, you know I know everything about you."

"General, this is not a game. Do you have any idea how many innocent people are about to die?"

"No one is innocent. But, yes, I do- even more so than you."

"Is it worth it?"

Zim winced. "Oh, those kinds of questions give me a headache, Major. I want to know if you have redecorated your apartment recently. Maybe you have pulled the rugs, decided to buy some new lights for the ceiling? Or maybe some new paintings?"

"Operation 2659 is the invasion of Alberta. The Empress is the code name for an operative, a female operative who is part of or perhaps leading the mission."

"Yes, you knew that before we even met. The Euros fed you that on a spoon. And since then, you've spent all your time reading Irken fairy tales..." He laughed to himself.

"This is your last chance, General. Otherwise, you're going to rot in prison for the rest of your life. You could defect, tell us what we need to know. You could work with us to bring a peaceful solution to this conflict."

"You're dealing with the Irken Empire, Major. There can be no peace!" He snapped again, getting closer to the camera. He drew back, then lowered his head and shook it to recollect himself and looked to the camera with his head tilted slightly to the left. "Do you want to become the President of the United States? Because you sound so convincing." He snickered.

"Did you murder Jul?"

"No, she killed me."

"General..."

"This I will tell you. She was my friend, a brilliant officer, but her ego and ambition got in the way. I did not kill her, but she made many enemies in the IMID."

"She was The Empress."

"Of course not, Major. You are."

Parsons snickered. "How am I part of your invasion plan?"

"You are the one with the cold heart who is trying to stop it. You are the one we worried about most of all."

"I'm a CIA operations officer. I'm not chairmen of the Joint Chiefs. I don't wield that kind of power."

"You are more powerful than you know."

"General, will you defect?"

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes. "Good bye, Major."

(End chapter)


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

The USRAN _Olympia_ elevated its altitude once more, and Commander John Andreas stood on the large deck outside the haul of his ship, just above the bridge from which he came, shuddering against the cold wind and holding the satellite phone to his ear, waiting for someone to answer.

"Hello, Commander Andreas, this is COMPACFLT duty officer. Please hold for Admiral Stinson."

He already knew he was calling?

He waited about twenty seconds, then a familiar voice joined him. "Good morning, John. It's Admiral Dylan Stinson."

"Uh, good morning, sir." He responded tentatively.

"How much time can you give me?"

Andreas glanced around at the surrounding grey mountains matching his equally grey ship, air superiority grey to be exact. "I'm comfortable with five to ten minutes, Admiral."

"Very well, then-"

"But, uh, with all due respect, sir, can you tell me the title of that speech you gave in the old station auditorium last Fourth of July?"

"Oh, that one," Stinson said with a slight chuckle. "That would be '101 Ways Chief Petty Officers Trick Admirals into Believing We Run the Navy.'"

"Thank you, sir."

"Good man. Now, I'll talk fast. The Irkens shot down the ELF and Comsat satellite, _Michigan's_ back online, and we have one SITREP from you that's two days old. News doesn't get any better. The Irkens have begun moving a large force, perhaps two brigades, into the Northwest Territories, most likely headed for Alberta, for the cities, the oil reserves, the whole shebang. I've heard they're running more sorties than they did in Russia. On top of that, the president ordered the destruction of the International Space Station, since the Irkens used it to shoot down our satellites and were preparing to strike other targets. Now you talk, John. I'll listen."

Andreas' mouth fell open, and it took a few seconds before he could launch into a capsule summary of his observations regarding the Irken task force, concluding with, "Sir, requesting permission to destroy those ships."

"Permission granted, Commander."

"There's an opportunity at 0500, when they'll engage in refueling ops. I'm going to seize that window of opportunity."

"Excellent. For now, though, get back to a position where you won't be detected, stay safe, and make this your last voice call. We'll start handing you traffic via the sat phone data link so you don't need to transmit anything. I'm sure you've already surmised this phone is manned 24/7, and right now it's the only working number on the Iridium system."

That explained how the duty officer knew who was calling when she answered the phone.

"Aye aye, sir. I'll try to poke my nose up every two hours starting from the termination of the call."

"Good."

"Oh, and one personal item, Admiral: please have someone call my wife and tell her to change our PIN."

"Right. I'll call her myself. Good hunting, Captain."

"Thank you, sir."

Andreas thumbed off the phone, his thoughts still whirling as he barked out the order to reach the altitude of 30 meters to keep under radar.

* * *

It was at Army Airborne School in Fort Benning, Georgia, that Staff Sergeant Dib Membrane had been taught how to wear a parachute harness and had stood near the mock door, waiting for his turn to learn the proper method of exiting an aircraft.

The parachute landing fall platform had allowed him to develop the proper landings, while the lateral drift apparatus had helped him squire the proper technique for controlling the chute during descent.

Then there was the good old thirty four foot tower, which let you experience a jump into nothingness. And once you got to the 250 foot tower, you were feeling good about yourself- until to saw someone make a mistake. Still, Dib had survived, made his qualification jumps, and kept current by jumping at least once every three months.

Yes, it seemed like yesterday. Felt like yesterday, too. He still got the jitters every time he jumped, despite the hundreds of hours in other training courses he'd attended at Fort Bragg, the ones that had really kicked his butt. Now his butt was firmly planted on the bright red web seat of a C-130's vibrating hold with the rest of his new twelve man ODA team.

Dib had barely gotten to know these guys, and he still mixed up a few names. That was all right. There'd be plenty of time to get to know one another, after they finished their work. And thanks to the Irkens, the best way was to engage in HALO operations, a Marine rarity, but a definite favorite.

What you did was you jumped from your perfectly good aircraft at high altitude, in their case 25,000 feet, allowed yourself to free fall while at terminal velocity, then engaged in a low opening of your parachute so you could glide in clandestinely on your target from miles away, the target in this case being the sleepy little town of High Level, population: less than five thousand.

In order to perform such a miracle, Dib and his fellow operators had to son their heavier helmets and oxygen masks. Their high speed downward fall, coupled with their forward airspeed and the fact that they wore a minimal amount of metal, would allow them to defeat Irken radars.

A report from the pilot came in: winds were at twelve knots and holding. That was good. If they got up over eighteen knots, they'd have to abort the jump.

Thirty minutes prior they had all been breathing one hundred percent oxygen to flush the nitrogen from their bloodstreams, and the flight psychologist was making sure no one flipped out before the ramp opened up.

Breathing in all that pure oxygen was a huge deal because hypoxia was a huge enemy. Without enough air, you could lose consciousness, fail to open your chute, and literally dig your own grave. Dib had seen it happen. Twice. And both times the problem had occurred when changing over from the pre-breather to the oxygen bottle. Those guys had allowed nitrogen to slip back into their bloodstreams. At least neither had felt the impact. They'd just blacked out, dropped, hit the ground.

He shuddered. A dozen other things could go wrong, too, stuff he couldn't even imagine. They had to jump in a right knit formation, and one bad move by himself or a fellow operator could result in a fatal midair collision. No, Dib had never seen anyone die from that, but he'd seen a lot of guys slam into each other.

At their stage of the game, though, those things shouldn't be issues. But if your name was Dib Membrane, you always thought about them in the minutes before the jump. And there was wasn't much else to think about. If he didn't focus on that, he'd be back to Zim or Green Vox, imagining himself exacting revenge on those bastards.

Or he'd be back to that night in the VTOL, watching his brothers die before his eyes-

And asking the same damned question over and over: twelve good men went into that city, and only one came out. Why me?

The jumpmaster gave them the twenty minute warning, which they all acknowledged with a great cheer: it'd been nearly four hours since they'd lifted off from Gray Army Field.

Then the jumpmaster went through his checklist. Helmets and oxygen mask, check. CDS switches, load marker lights, anchor cable stops, ramp ADS arms, cargo compartment lights, all good for him.

"Complete!" He boomed while facing the cockpit with a thumb in the air.

And as all the safety minded paratroopers did, they checked their gear of the men ahead of them. Again. And again. Perhaps four, five, maybe six times over. Some said the last twenty minutes before a jump were the longest of their lives. Not for Dib.

He blinked.

And they were on their feet, the ramp open and locked, the navigator coming over the radio to say, "Ten seconds."

They were nearly on top of the CARP- the Computerized Airborne Release Point- which accounted for all the data coming in from the aircraft a systems and the current weather conditions. Dib was glad neither he not anyone else in the company had to figure out those calculations. They'd thrown some of that math at him back at Fort Bragg, and he'd spent most of his time ducking.

All right, the time had finally come.

The eight officers, seven Warrant Officers, and sixty seven enlisted soldiers of Dib's Marine Corps company were about to go for a little walk.

But then the pilot cursed, and the navigator screamed running from the cockpit, waving his arms over to the open ramp: "We got missile locked on! Get out! All of you get out! Jump!"

Dibs mouth went to cotton. He now knew those pilots had discovered they'd been probed by enemy radars a while ago, but they hadn't said anything. No need to cause a plane full of Marines to get unraveled.

The Irkens had poured so much research time into new technology that they'd been routinely defeating electronic countermeasures, and wasn't it Dib's luck that his ride up to Canada had a bulls eye painted on its nose?

Nevertheless, the reaction of the men inside the cargo hold was testament to the professionalism of Marines everywhere.

There was no frantic rush to the ramp, no mob scene of helmeted troopers stampeding to get out. They began to jump as they ordinarily did- just ten times faster, the jumpmaster hidden behind his visor and waving them on.

Dibs helmet was equipped with the latest, greatest, and smallest generation of night vision goggles attached over the visor. A host of other readings, including data from his wrist mounted altimeter and parachute automatic activation device (AAD), were fed to him via a head's up display in the visor itself.

The unit automatically switched on as he left the ramp, among the first twenty or so to exit, along with their heavy equipment/ordnance crates.

Down below, lights shone like phosphorescent switching on a black quilt, but those switches were few and far between. This part of Canada was scarcely populated. Also somewhere down there was the railroad, and the river, but he couldn't see them just yet.

No one said a word over the intra-team radio. They were all holding their breaths, Dib knew.

A slight flash came from the corner of his eye, and he craned his head, just as the missile struck the C-130 in the tail, impacting right above the open ramp- even as operators were still bailing out.

He couldn't even say _Oh my God_.

He was shocked into silence. The aircraft exploded in a fluctuating cloud of flames and plasma that swallowed the Marines floating away from the tail.

Dib deliberately rolled onto his back and watched as the roiling sphere of death grew even larger, pieces of flaming debris extending away from it, trailing tendrils of smoke. And it was all delivered to Dib in the grainy green of night vision as Marines suddenly appeared from the cloud, on fire and tumbling hopelessly toward the Earth.

The voices finally came over the radio, buried with anger, tight with exertion, high pitched in agony. He listened to his brothers try to save each other, listened to some gasp their last breaths...

As he floated there with a front row seat, his pulse increasing, his breath growing shallow, every muscle in his body beginning to grow tense.

Until somebody struck him with a terrible thud, knocking him around into an uncontrollable barrel roll.

Flames flashed by.

He'd been hit by one of the dead guys.

He had to recover fast. The longer he rolled, the longer it'd take to recover.

He arched his back, extended his arms, but kept rolling. Someone called his name.

Part of him thought it was no good. He should've died in that city with the rest of them. He'd been living on borrowed time.

Then he heard Rarik telling him how lucky he was, having escaped death twice. Why not make it a hat trick?

Hell, he could've blown up with the plane. Giving up now would be a terrible waste. And then he thought about his dead brothers. They needed him to carry on. He remembered the last few lines of the poem Arkady had told him.

_I am a member of my nations chosen soldiery. God grant that I may not be found wanting, that I will not fail this scared trust._

A scared trust.

Damn it, he would not let them down.

He arched his back again, thrust out his arms, and screamed to regain control. The roll slowed, and he was disoriented, the altimeter's digital readout ticking off his descent, the ground still spinning a little, but he was on his belly, and his detachment commander was calling him on the radio.

He took a deep breath, about to answer, when he spotted the long column of smoke in the distance... Where the C-130 had once been.

(End chapter)


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Rearmed and refueled, Lieutenant Colonel Gaz Membrane streaked down the runway, engine roaring, her gear just leaving the ground as dozens of Irken plasma shells finally hit Igloo Base.

She pulled up and away, banked left, and came around to witness a chilling sight.

The snow covered Quonset huts housing the enlisted soldiers bunks, the offices, and the officers quarters burst apart, ragged pieces of metal flying everywhere as chutes of plasma swept through them and ignited the stands of lodgepole lines behind the base.

Barely two seconds later, the refueling trucks went up like dominoes, their crew trying to evacuate in the HMMWVs but were caught in the blast. Those explosions triggered several more among the smaller vehicles parked nearby, just outside the two hangar facilities that stood only a moment more before two bombs suddenly obliterated them.

Inevitably, the small, five story tower and adjacent command center took one, two, three direct hits from thousand pound plasma reactors that acted as bombs and were lost in blinding eruptions of blue plasma that incinerated anything in its blast, the balls of super heated material rose and collided with each other, throwing up a black wall of fire filled smoke.

Gaz was exhausted, overtired, her thoughts consumed by horror and disbelief. From her vantage point, the devastation below was silent and seemingly less significant. But she'd met nearly everyone at the base, and she realized now that there would be no survivors.

"Oh, God. Siren, you see that?" Asked Sapphire.

She could barely answer. "Yeah."

They had one job left, one last sortie.

There was nowhere to refuel. No where to rearm. And last orders they'd received from Igloo were to engage the enemy.

So they would.

She and Lisa Nantz were the only two left. Had their refueling gone a minute longer, they, of course, would already be dead.

Dozens of Irken transports soared through the sky, their escort fighters engaging the squadrons from Alaska.

"Where are the Canadians?" Sapphire asked.

"Rearming and refueling."

"Roger that."

Gaz took a long breath to study her nerves. "This is it. You ready?"

"Ready."

"Let's go get em'!" With that, she engaged the afterburner, accelerating with a force that was hard to describe to someone who'd never sat in a cockpit. Just as she hit Mach 1, the Prandt-Glauret singularity occurred, a vapor cone caused by a sudden drop on air pressure that extended from the wings to her tail. She left the cone behind in her exhaust trail.

They held their steady course, ascending over the enemy aircraft, bound for coordinates seventy five kilometers northwest of Bechoko, where dozens of transports had landed and were off loading their DMOV-3s.

The five hundred pound JDAMs under Gaz's wings were accurate to within thirteen meters, and she and Sapphire could launch those precision guided bombs from up to twenty four kilometers away during a low altitude launch. You plugged in the coordinates, delivered the munitions-

Barring of course, angry swarms of Irken fighters whose pilots thought otherwise. The AGM-154 Joint Standoff Weapons in the F-35B's internal bays were the "C" variant developed for the Navy. The weapons utilized a combination of an imaging infrared (IR) terminal seeker and two way data link to achieve point accuracy and was designed to attack point targets. It was a thousand pounds general purpose destruction. And it was most definitely time for her and Sapphire to flash their fangs and lighten their loads.

"Two minutes," Gaz warned her wingman.

"Roger that. I have two targets on the ground on the easy side of their staging area, over."

"I see them," Gaz said, checking her own display. "I've got two more transports on the west side. Christ, you see all those DMOVs?"

"I do. Too bad we weren't packing more punch."

Sapphire was right. Thousand pound JDAMs instead of five hundred would have really done the job.

"One minute." Gaz announced.

_That's all we need is one minut_e, thought Gaz. She glanced up through the canopy, where the first streaks of dawn turned the sky a light purple on the horizon.

_Just thirty seconds now. Give me thirty seconds._

Sapphire cursed into the radio. "Four bogeys at our eleven o'clock, closing in, fast."

Gaz swore under her breath as she checked her own radar. "They ain't ours."

"Nope. Got ID: Irken Air Reapers. Countermeasures seem ineffective. I think they have us. We better launch before they do!"

The Air Reaper was the Irkens latest single seat fighter, created in the third and current Earth invasion, deemed by most USAF pilots as the most deadly in it's arsenal and capable of carrying up to 18,000 pounds of ordnance.

"Just keep course. Fifteen seconds."

"They're going to get missile lock!"

Gaz's voice turned strangely calm as her years of training kicked in, like muscle memory. "Sapphire, let's make it all worth it. We're almost there."

"Oh my god," gasped Sapphire. "We won't make it!"

"Hang on! Five, four, three, two... Bombs away! Flares, chaff, evade!" Gaz cried.

The two JDAMs fell away from her wings as behind her, the chaff and flares ignited. Sapphire did likewise, and Gaz lost sight of her as they both rolled inverted and dove away in a split S, the oldest trick in the book, hoping the sudden maneuver would prevent those Air Reaper pilots from getting missile lock. And he came upright, flying in the Irkens direction about two thousand feet below, the bad news flashed: enemy missiles locked.

And her wingman confirmed the next inescapable fact: "Siren, they've fired!"

Gaz longed for the days of a good old dogfighting, when maybe she and Sapphire could've pulled out the old Thach Weave, one of them baiting an enemy pilot while the other waxed him from the side. Though they would occasionally get to tangle with the enemy, it was mostly distant and faceless now, missiles launched from kilometers away from jets you never saw- and those missiles you'd only glimpse for a second, your last.

Gaz reacted out of pure instinct, jamming the stick forward and plunging straight down, even as she hit the afterburner.

Her first thought was to outrun the incoming missiles, get her fighter near Mach 2, practically melt off the wings. She imagined the missiles running out of fuel behind her and simply dropping away.

But that was a fantasy.

The Hedgehog missiles had a range of at least one hundred kilometers, as everything Gaz knew about missiles and evading them told her if these Hedgehogs didn't take the flares of chaff, then she was in their no escape zone.

She blasted through the clouds and checked her screens.

Twelve seconds to impact.

"Oh, God. Siren, I don't think I can-"

Sapphire's transmission broke off, and her fighter vanished from Gaz's display. Her wingman hadn't even ejected.

Gaz blinked hard. _Is this how it'll be, then? Give me more time. I'm not finished yet._

No barrel roll, split S, break turn, chandelle, or wingover would save her now.

No maneuver in the world.

No amount of thrust from her engines.

She cut the afterburner, hit the damned breaks. Hard. Below lay the haphazard rows of Irken transport ships, and Gaz's AGM-154s were locked on a pair of targets.

So, with seven seconds left, she cut loose both bombs- then rugged the black and yellow striped handle between her legs.

The canopy blew off with a violent shudder. Nearly at the same time, the Martin Baker Mk. 16 ejection seat rocketed her out and away, the straps and padded cuffs of the leg restraint system pinning her shins to the seat, even as the wind struck her squarely and sent her rushing back and away, long flames extending from her boots.

An explosion lit in her helmet, but it turned into a streak as she continued back a second more. Then the seats drogue chute caught the wind, abruptly yanking her down, and she plummeted toward the earth; the main chute, stowed behind her headrest, deployed while the seat dropped away, yanked up by it's own chute.

Just then she caught sight of the lines of transport ships below, where her second two bombs had impacted. Fires raged everywhere, with massive pieces of steal detaching from the fuselages. At that moment, another transport came in for a landing and crashed into the debris lying in it's path. The ship spun sideways, sliding wildly across the snow until it impacted with several others in a chain reaction that left Gaz wanting to cheer, but she felt too sick.

She was glad she hadn't had time to eat. She had practiced ejections before, but this one... She thought for a moment she might pass out. Her comm system had automatically switched over to the helmets transmitter, and while she knew her ejection had automatically sent to every USAF command post in the world, she knew it was imperative that she confirm she was alive.

Yes, her flight suit would also transmit her bio readings, but voice on the end of the encrypted transmission carried a whole lot more weight.

Protocol dictated that she got on the tactical channel to contact the nearest command post, but she said screw it and broadcast over the emergency channel reserved for strategic operations. Better to ring the louder bell.

"This is USAF fighter Siren out of Igloo Base, Northwest Territories. I've ejected north of Bechoko." She rattled off the last coordinates she'd read on her display. "I'm descending toward a heavily wooded area, GPS coordinates to follow once I'm on the ground, over."

After about ten seconds, a voice came over the radio: "USAF fighter Siren, this is Hammer, Tampa Five Bravo. Received your transmission. We'll see if we can get some help to you. Send GPS coordinates once you're on the ground."

"Roger that, Hammer. And here's hoping our boys get to me before they do."

"We'll do everything we can. And you do the same. Stand by..."

All right, she'd survived the ejection.

Would she survive the landing?

The forest unfurled below for kilometer after kilometer, dense, snow covered, a bone breaking gauntlet.

She imagined herself plunging though the heavy canopy and getting impaled by a limb.

Wouldn't that be her luck?

Some training mission. The fighters were gone, the base was gone, her colleagues were dead.

_Jake, are you there?_

_Yeah, why didn't you say anything?_

_Because it would've been too complicated._

_You're wrong._

_I know. I've been lying to myself._

_Just don't panic. It'll be all right. I'll be with you every step of the way. You know what to do now. Get your mind off of it. Calm down._

Gaz took a deep breath.

The ground came up faster.

With a vengeance.

(End chapter)


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Commander John Andreas glanced down at his watch: 0513 hours.

You would need a hell of a lot more than a knife to cut the tension on the _Olympia's_ bridge.

A plasma torch might not even do it- because the moment had come, and Andreas and his crew were a pack of arctic wolves, poised before their prey, still silent in the dull red light.

The ATA-184 Harpoon anti ship missiles were loaded in pods one and two on either side of the ship. And presently, the _Malhiem_, the converted CCS-Class Aircraft Carrier now serving as the Irken task force's command and control ship, had the DDS-Class oiler _Rantu_ tied up alongside, with lines fore and aft, separated by evenly spaced fenders between them to cushion any accidental impact between the ships. Now, with the first pale ribbons of dawn wandering along the horizon, refueling operations were well under way.

This was it.

Two ships. A hell storm of missiles.

Andreas held his breath a moment more, and then turned his key, granting the weapons control console permission to launch. The reaction of thirty missiles more than fifteen hundred pounds each out the over sized archer pods rumbled through the bridge.

The interstellar variant of the ATA-184 Harpoon anti ship missile was housed in a blunt nosed, torpedo like capsule called an ENCAP, which had positive aerodynamics and burst away from the _Olympia_ , while a lanyard caused fins to pop up out as it glided through the air with massive power and speed.

Once the ENCAPs exited the pods, Andreas watched as they blew off their tails and caps, then fired the Harpoon on its solid fuel booster.

His pulse leapt as the glowing orbs shot off.

The missile was directed by an INS (internal navigation system), where it conducted an autonomous search for a specific programmed target image. A number of different search patterns could be programmed into the Harpoon, which not only increased its probability of detecting the target but made it harder to trace the missile's flight path back to its launcher.

Now the Harpoons dropped under the ships altitudes as they homed in, riding on the cold mountain air.

Andreas checked his watch once more, then glanced up at the image on the flat panel.

The Harpoon's WDU-18/B- an innocuous description for the 488 pound, penetrating, blast fragmentation warhead- pierced the _Malhiem's_ port beam.

A heartbeat... Then 297,000 gallons of Irken aviation and ship fuel ignited.

The _Malhiem's_ crew was vaporized before her aft superstructure fractured into five pieces and hurtled toward the Earth below. Her port side spewed molten, fragmented titanium more than two miles out into Gray's Bay. Then, less then thirty milliseconds, molten fragmented titanium- formerly the _Malhiem's_ starboard side- bridged the twenty five foot gap separating the oiler from the port side of the _Rantu_.

Andreas gasped as the _Rantu's_ partially filled fuel tanks immediately exploded, peeling back and curling 150 feet of her top section like a sardine can.

The enormous holes at the _Rantu's_ midsection on each side poured outward with plasma and blue flames. The following explosions shattered the Rantu's keel in three separate locations.

Andreas beat a fist into his palm, and the crew saw that as a sign to cut loose and cheer over the victory.

Her spine broken, _Rantu _took a few moments to join _Malhiem_ on the ground with several more explosions. There were no survivors from either vessel.

Two down, two to go. The _M'kgalegolo_ and the _Pala'gok_...

* * *

Half of his company had been killed in the C-130 explosion, leaving Staff Sergeant Dib Membrane in a state of shock as he gathered his chute with the other Marines who had managed to bail out before the missile had struck.

He'd shut down his oxygen, popped off his helmet, and was panting in the frigid morning air, occasionally glancing across the board, snow covered field toward several buildings, lumber mills maybe, an the dense forests toward the east and west. With the chute gathered, he charged toward the embankment along a snow covered road, probably dirt, where the rest if the Marines were gathering and burying their chutes in the snow.

There, Dib crouched down with twenty six other men, nothing immediately that every operator of ODA-888 had made it, along with most of the operators from ODA-887, though one guy was lying on his back, looking pale as two medics attended to him.

"Everybody else, all right?" Asked detachment commander Captain David Smith. He was Dib's CO, bearded and barely thirty, and wise enough to lean on Dib for advice. "This mission is not over. Captain Vargas and I have decided we're carrying on and have put in the request for another company to be sent up. Of course that's going to take time. Meanwhile, we get to work."

Captain Manny Vargas, big eyes and a Fu Manchu mustache, nodded and added, "Me and my boys from Zodiac Team will hit the Chevy dealership and secure some SUVs, while you guys from Berserker hit the sporting goods store and pick up gear in our crates. Captain Smith, Warrant Officer Samson, and Sergeant Dib who'll meet the mayor and the RCMPs here."

The Royal Canadian Mounted Police would be one of the keys in securing and preparing the town for the Irken invasion, but Dib had a sneaking suspicion that their support wouldn't be easily won. And with the area's small population, Dib figured if they found a dozen Mounties to help, that'd be a lot.

"All right, gentlemen. We rally on the police station no later than oh six thirty hours," Said Smith. "The Irkens are already on the ground and on the move. No time to waste!"

"Okay, let's move!" Hollered Dib.

And with that, all of them took off running across the field, shouldering their heavy packs.

Dib couldn't wait to see the look on the Mounties' faces when he, Smith and Samson walked into the station.

That would be an interesting conversation.

* * *

Lieutenant Colonel Gaz Membrane crashed through the tree limbs with a horrible cracking noise. She was jolted left, then right, her helmet scraping across the trees, then suddenly she-

Stopped short.

Her entire body tugged hard against the straps, and her neck snapped back as she lost her breath. It took a few seconds for her to get her bearings. The snow lay about twenty feet below. She glanced up, saw that the chute had tangled in the limbs and she now dangled in midair.

After ditching the ejection seat, she'd done her best to steer herself into the widest gap between trees, and that had probably saved her life, but it had also left her hanging, literally, between the big pines.

Detaching the chute line and jumping meant risking a fracture. She undid her helmet, let it drop to the snow, thud.

No. She wasn't jumping.

"Oh," she said aloud, breathing in the cold, crisp air. In the distance came the muffled drone of engines keeping an Irken ship moving and in the air, she wondered how long it would be before they sent out a squad of imperial troops for her. They couldn't have missed her chute.

The thought sent her into motion, swinging from side to side, trying to get close to the nearest trunk, where she might grab on and attempt to secure herself.

After five or six swings, she built up enough momentum to strike the trunk, bark flying as she wrapped an arm around and came to a sudden halt, he grip already faltering.

She detached the chute, let the twenty two pound survival kit fall away to the ground, where it broke open, scattering its contents.

_Nice, Colonel._

Then she threw herself forward, wrapped both arms around the tree, then both legs, as lines fell away.

Repressing the morbid desire to look down, she slowly loosened her arms, just a bit, and began to slide- just as a shattered limb above decided to drop, missing her by inches.

The sudden shock caused her to loose her grip even more, and she slid much too fast down the tree, bark ripping across her legs, which were beginning to warm behind the flight suit.

She wasn't sure if she had screamed or not as she suddenly hit the ground, lost her balance, and collapsed onto her rump, sending up a cloud of snow. For just a few seconds she sat there, gingerly testing her legs, making sure she hadn't broken or sprained anything.

Then the internal voice took over, the training: _All right, all right, get the gear and get the hell out!_

She had a couple of meals ready to eat (MREs), a couple liters of water, a .45 with three spare magazines, a survival guide for exciting reading in case she got bored fleeing from the Irkens, a fixed blade survival knife in a nylon sheath, a radio beacon (which she checked to be sure was off), a pair of high powered binoculars with integrated digital camera, and a small emergency blanket.

She tried the helmets Radio. Dead. Damn, it'd been smashed up in the trees on the way down. She also had her wrist mounted GPS and satellite phone in her breast pocket, which was now fished out, switched on.

No signal.

"Are you kidding me? The entire network's down?"

Well, wasn't that a bitch? She'd have to find the ejection seat, which had recently been equipped with a secondary transmitter. But breaking radio silence would mean giving up her location, the same way the survival kit's satellite beacon could.

_Damned if you do, damned if you don't._

It wouldn't hurt to at least track down the seat, and let them know in which direction she was headed, she was-

She spun around.

If the Irkens were heading south, any direction but south might be good. Then again, the farther north, east, or west she traveled, the farther her rescuers would have to come- if they were planning to rescue her.

It would be all too easy to write off one pilot in an operation as massive as this could be. Did they even have the resources?

She vowed to stop feeling sorry for herself. She would find the ejection seat, send off the last transmission, then take it from there.

After slinging the survival kit over her shoulder, the three .45 magazines in her left hip pocket, the pistol in her gloved hand, she took one last look around to make sure she'd hadn't left anything. Then, remembering she had been gliding northwest when she'd dumped the seat, she jogged off and headed southeast through the forest.

She got no more thousand yards from her landing site when she heard the sounds if multiple, powerful sounds. The sounds left her puzzled. She crouched down, the dug through her kit, produced the binoculars.

In a clearing off to her left, half a dozen silver Irken Ice Saws, came to a halt. Opening their canopies and stepping out of them were heavily armed Elites.

Lowering the binoculars and placing them back into the kit, ever so gently, as though the tiniest sound might be heard by the enemy, Gaz glanced up, saw how the forest dipped down ahead, and figured there might be better cover there.

She rose, started off, wouldn't look back, wouldn't do a damned thing except focus on the next position.

One of the Elites cried out in Irken, loud enough for her to hear, and she understood the words: "Over here! I found the chute!"

And now they knew she was alive.

(End chapter)


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

A battle worn Irken in his early nineties whom the computer identified as Uura, Commander of the Ripper Assault Ship _M'galekgolo_, was standing on the bridge of his vessel, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the floor.

Andreas's men had just intercepted and decrypted communications between him and the Skipper of the next CCS-Class Assault Ship _Pala'gok_. Both Irkens agreed that with the destruction of _Malhiem_ and _Rantu_ was the worst refueling accident in the history of the Irken Navy.

And both Irkens were unaware of the wolf at their door.

Andreas tensed as Uura looked up to him in his own bridge, a half second before seven Harpoons struck his ship broadside.

The incredible amount of energy directed upward into the main haul from the missiles landing inside the hanger bay instantly blasted everyone inside the bridge apart, including commander Uura-

Just as the plasma flooded engineering spaces exploded in the magnificent conflagration that, seconds later, split _M'galekgolo_ in half.

The Ripper Assault Ship's stern section started losing altitude within a few short moments, but the bow section managed to somehow maintain its altitude, crew members fled the craft in Spittlerunners and escape pods, a horrific site, even for a human, Irkens began jumping out of the hanger bays, free falling toward the ground that spelt their death.

Those lucky Irkens in the Spittlerunners, fitting two pilots and about ten soldiers in the back fled for the _Pala'gok_ as they watched the bow section finally give and the craft fell to join the _Malhiem_ and _Rantu_ at the bottom of Gray's Bay.

This time there was no cheering in Andreas' bridge. The odd thing was- every man serving on this ship would attest do this- if there wasn't a war breaking out between the two, they and the Irken shipmen serving on each ship would probably buy each other drinks. They were all proud Navy men and women. There was a kinship there that extended beyond politics and culture... Even over specie difference.

But, as always, when push came to shove, they would kill each other without hesitation, and often without remorse. So, no, there was no cheering this time while the tortured faces appeared on the _Olympia's_ screens. For a few minutes more, everyone on the bridge watched as the _M'galekgolo's_ survivors struggled to reach a ship that was already doomed. Andreas, unwilling to subject himself and his crew to any more, he gave the order to fire.

The _Olympia_ launched twenty more Harpoons that raced toward and struck the _Pala'gok_ forward fuel tank. The enormous blast instantaneously consumed the first five hundred feet of the ship, including the _Pala'goks _overloaded escape craft.

As long columns of fire and smoke billowed from the vessel, high altitude winding swung her 180 degrees on her stern, causing her to come apart. It started for the face of a mountain, _Pala'goks_ broken hull foundered against the rocky edges.

The handful of survivors who began making their way to the rails would face the hostile Northwest Territories. Andreas doubted that they'd last more than a week.

Throughout the Harpoon attack, he had stood with his right hip pressed against the plotting table and suddenly realized his right leg had gone to sleep. The realization carried him back to his boyhood and Melvilles's Captain Ahab. He shuddered free the memory and got back to work.

The task force's heavy transports had left, leaving the ammunition/assault ship, which had already lifted off and was on the run.

Andreas spoke softy. "Let her pass. I'd like to get her name before we kill her- for the log."

The ammo ship's angle on the bow was currently port thirty, making it impossible to see her stern and name. However, she had been zigzagging and was just about due for another course change.

Andreas got his wish when she turned right seventy degrees. He let her pass then slowly fell in behind to read her transom: written in Irken symbols.

"Anybody. Translate that for me," he said.

"It means lightning, sir," replied the Spec Ops communications technician.

"How apropos." He glanced sidelong at the XO.

"Sir, she's coming up over us- we don't want her coming down on us when he blows." He looked to the weapons officer. "Arm top side launcher. You have the honor."

"Aye aye, sir."

The Mk. 81 ADCAP (advanced capability) was a wire guided, active/passive homing missile, nineteen feet long and twenty inches in diameter. Thrust from its solid fuel engine, it could reach speeds of up to 200 km/phr.

Once the XO confirmed the missile was loaded, Andreas paused a moment more, thinking about all the men and women about to lose their lives. War was a terrible thing. After a barely discernible nod from Andreas, the XO gave the order.

As the missile shot through the launch tube, a thin wire spun out, electronically linking it with the ship. This enabled the operator of the ships sensitive radar systems to guide the missile toward the target.

The ammo ship _Lightning_, a very human name for an Irken ship, deployed several decoys and jamming devices as it attempted to raise its shields, but the operator would avoid those as the missile reached a hundred kilometers per hour.

A few seconds later, the wire cut free, and the missile's high powered active/passive radar steered it during the final attack.

The Mk. 81's warhead contained the explosive power of about 1,600 pounds of TNT, and both Andreas and the XO knew that knew that power could be maximized when the warhead detonated below the keel of a target ship.

"Three seconds," Said the XO, monitoring his console's timer. "Two, one."

The warhead exploded exactly as planned. The resulting blast wave lifted the _Lightning_, and while Andreas couldn't see it, he felt certain that her belly had broken in the process.

As she started to descend, the second detonation occurred, tearing apart and igniting her huge cache of ammunition. Long plumes of plasma and fragments shot nearly two hundred meters skyward. Dozens more explosions joined the first in a rainbow of colors that lot the sky.

When the smoke cleared a bit, Andreas confirmed that they had broken the ship into several pieces. The larger bow and stern secretions were falling fast as they crumbled, while still more ammunition began to cook off.

Again, more silence on the bridge, until-

"Should we close the search for survivors, sir?" Asked the XO.

Andreas thought for a moment. "No." He took a deep breath, then called, "Navigator? Give me a course to the mouth of the Dolphin and Union Strait. With the east end of the gulf blocked, that strait is a perfect choke point- and we get to say who comes through here."

* * *

On the bridge of the Irken Bludgeon class ship "The Massive", A rather strange name compared to other capital ships, a scene broke out as bridge technicians watched in silent amusement.

"Give it back!" Screamed Purple.

Red raised his arm, holding something, as he stuck out his tongue and made a face.

"We're the same height, you idiot!"

Red opened his eyes as Purple tackled him, both of them falling to the ground as their hover belts collapsed under their weight, their body shells hitting the steel floor with a 'clunk'.

Red braced to take the brunt of the fall, for he was on the bottom. His head snapped back on impact, his arms following, he lost grip of the object in his two long fingers. It was clear as to what it was, the most beautiful snack any Irken can lay eyes on.

A large doughnut the size of a humans head, typical pink icing and rainbow sprinkles lay over the icing in random patterns.

Red and Purple stopped slapping one another in sudden realization, they slowly looked to their right, they saw the technicians eyeballing the doughnut now standing in between the two leaders and the bridge crew.

All hell broke loose, battle cries among boots slamming the steel as the bridge crew jumped the gap onto the main viewing platform in front of the viewing window. Red and Purple, without reactivating their hover belts bolted for the doughnut against the tide of technicians in blood curdling battle cries with their arms raised in the air.

The much taller, and stronger leaders of the Empire ended up breaking the technicians limbs and bodies, leaving them moaning in pain and agony all over the bridge. Some of them bent over terminals, some even on the second tier of the bridge, who knows how they got up there.

Now, it was Red and Purple, on the field of warriors, ready to draw blood...

... For a doughnut...

They kicked off the steal, gaining momentum as they kicked off the ground faster and faster each round. They reached the doughnut, Purple brought up his right arm and threw it at Red with his two fingers curled around the gauntlet that was part of his traditional robe. Red brought his left arm up to catch Purples right, he wrapped his arm around Purples, Purple tried pulling away, only to catch Reds right gauntlet under his armor chest plating in an uppercut.

Purple doubled over in pain, holding his squeedly spooch in pain. Red let go, Purples right arm joined his left on his stomach as he fell to the floor, shivering.

Red knelt down, picked up the doughnut and held it to the sky like Shakespeare presenting a skull to the Gods.

"May the control brains bless this victory, and forever shall I praise the baker who made this fine snack."

With that said, he opened his mouth, and horrifically devoured the doughnut in two gargantuan bites. He proceeded to lick his fingers clean.

"On your feet, we're late for our video conference with the Canadian Prime Minister."

Purple refused with a moan, Red growled before grasping Purples arms and lifting him to his feet. Purple suddenly slapped him, Red retorted with another slap, Purple slapped Red again.

"Stop it."

Another slap landed on Reds face.

"Stop it! We almost killed our entire bridge crew, including ourselves, over a doughnut!?" He sighed. "Anyone who's limbs aren't broken. Contact the Prime Minister!"

The electronic ringing could be heard throughout the bridge. Purple slapped Red again. Red raised his arm to slam his fist into Purples face, the sudden image of the Prime Minister appeared on the large screen.

Red dropped his arm and they both faced the screen in an instant.

"Hello, Prime Minister," Said Tallest Red and Purple in unison, hands behind their backs and smiling brightly, attempting to look as innocent as small children. Purple speaking first, "I'm glad you could take our call. We know it's early there."

Prime Minister Robert Emerson of Canada had dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. He had loosened his tie, and he barely opened his mouth when he said quite curtly, "Get out of my country."

Red speaking now, their smiles now unfixed, "I'm afraid, Prime Minister, that it is far too late for that. But what I have to tell you is quite urgent and will benefit you greatly, if you are willing to negotiate."

"Red, you're a creature of realpolitik, coercive, and amoral. There are no negotiations here. Get out of my country."

Purple now budding in, "Prime minister, I understand how you feel, and I know how important it is for you and your people to hold your homeland and world. I can guarantee that Canada will not become involved, if we work together."

"We are already involved. You've invaded the Northwest Territories and are heading for Alberta."

Red, speaking again, "That's not all. As we speak our Imperial Troopers, Naval Infantry and Elite forces are heading toward Edmonton and Calgary. They will drop into those cities and seize control of power and communications uplinks, as well as those early warning radar systems for the American missile defense shield. It is winter. Very cold. And we will shut down the power. The heat. But we don't have to do that."

"If we hand over control of Alberta?" Emerson guessed.

Purple spread his hands in gesture of Bon homie. "What is politics, Prime Minister? It is simply the pursuit, possession, and application of power. Let us share that power."

Prime Minister Emerson closed his eyes and massaged his temples, then suddenly blurted, "You know the Americans want to... 'Share power' with us as well."

Purple spoke again, "And we know you've already failed to stop them from crossing your boarders. But we'll forgive that. All we need from you now is a promise not to interfere. And once we control Alberta, you will continue production- even increase it- with our assistance."

"And of course the Empire will receive a substantial portion of our profits. Come on, you are a smuggler. And this sounds like a proposition put forth by a militia, not the Empire."

The remark stung Red and Purple alike, and Red sharpened his tone.

"Prime Minister, I'll have you know, I was also the co-owner and chairman of one of Irks and the universes largest oil and gas companies. I know this business. I know how together we can continue production and force the Americans and Europeans to pay dearly for that oil. Let Canada become richer- with our help."

"Tallest Red, I must be frank with you. I don't believe a goddamn word you've just said."

"I'm sorry you feel that way."

"Get. Out. Of my. Country."

"It's too late for that." Red raised his inner finger, the only other one he owned. "Let me add this: if your government decides to offer any more Military assistance to the Americans, you will suffer the full Military might of the Irken Empire."

"Don't threaten me."

Purple stepped in front of Red, clasping his hands together and pressing his antenna to his skull like a homeless person begging for money, "Mr. Prime Minister, at this point you are far better off doing nothing. Stay neutral. We will respect that. We will do everything we can to limit the number of casualties and preserve your infrastructure. Even make the repairs. Take some time to think it over. You will come to see that what we're offering is far more attractive and will allow Canada to step out from the shadow of those American soldiers. You could take it to your people, but I understand a cabinet revolt would bring you down quickly, and your parliament is quite anemic, with several members vying for your position. Sit on your hands for now, if that is your wish. But do not help the Americans or the Europeans. We will call you again in a day or two. And we will see how you feel then."

Emerson just stared blankly at the two of them, a man still unwilling to admit defeat. He would. In time.

"Goodbye, Mr. Prime Minister." They said in unison, once more. Suppressing their childish smiles.

* * *

The large, touch screen map table showing the Northwest Territories and Alberta flickered with "Blue" and "Red" force activity as Major Katrina Parsons shifted past it on her way back to her desk to take the call.

When she sat down and saw the origination, she neatly fell out of her chair. She swallowed hard and smoothed back her hair, then adjusted the collar of her uniform to buy some time and calm herself a bit.

After another deep breath, she reached out with a trembling finger and touched the screen.

President Beccera was seated aboard Air Force One. His brows raised. "Hello, Major Parsons."

"Uh, hi. I mean, hello, Mr. President. This is, uh, I'm sorry," She stammered.

"Relax, Major. I just need a little favor."

The President of the United States was asking _her_ for a favor?

"Actually two things."

He could ask for ten. "Uh, yes, Mr. President?"

"It's my understanding that you've been in direct contact with an F-35 pilot forced to eject up in the Northwest Territories, Lieutenant Colonel Gaz Membrane, call sign Siren."

"Yes, sir. We lost all those fighters. She was the last one to hang on. She put a hell of a dent in their operations."

"I know. And it's also my understanding that no one's been assigned the TRAP mission to get her out of there."

"No, sir, we've tried. I was hoping we could split up one of the ODA teams we dropped in High Level, but their C-130 got hit before the whole company got out. We only have a couple dozen Marines on the ground, with no air support yet, so I can't spare them. And even if I could, I doubt I could get them up there in time. The first sorties carrying the brigade from the Tenth Mountain won't reach Grand Prairie for a couple of hours now, and they'll be even farther south."

"I want that pilot recovered."

"Of course, sir, but she's way behind enemy lines."

"Major, I talked to her myself. She was the tip of our spear, and I won't write her off. Now before you even think it, this isn't some PR stunt to create a 'feel good' story. That pilot is a valuable asset. And she's worth the risk."

"Yes, sir. Getting a team up there could also provide us with some boots on ground intel for their staging area."

"Exactly."

"Sir, I'll do everything I can."

He nodded. "And the second thing. I know you've been trying to crack Zim. Keep at it. The IMID rarely engages in straightforward ops like this."

"I know, sir. We've got that number, that code name, then we just hit the wall."

"Dig more into his past. Maybe the key is there. And also... Consider the source of that information."

"Sir?"

"The Euros tipped us off, handed over that intel. There's nothing to say that the intel isn't corrupt, or that the intel will point to the Euros being directly involved."

"I'll expand my search. Anything else, sir?"

"Oh, that'll keep you busy. Thank you, Major."

Someone beckoned him. He smiled politely and ended the call.

Parsons sat there, just breathing. Then she bolted from her chair and cried, "Where are those Marines from Pendleton? Are they still in the air?"

(End chapter)


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Were it not for the arrival of those Imperial Troopers in their Ice Saws, Lieutenant Colonel Gaz Membrane would not have located her ejection seat. She wouldn't have looked up, considering that maybe her best hiding place would be in a tree, carefully hidden among those thick, snow laden limbs. While she had been scanning the trees, her gaze had lightened upon an irregular shape, and as she approached for a better look, she realized the damned seat had lodged itself some twenty feat above, the chute tangled in the limbs.

So much for calling Hammer again. At least for now.

With the troopers still behind her, she forged on, darting between the trees, leaving a terribly clear trail in the snow. After ducking around the next trunk, she paused to catch her breath.

_All right, think. Can't keep running. Need a direction. Something. Anything._

A glance back revealed more forest to the southeast. Her GPS showed nothing but more of the same. However, if she went directly west, she'd run into a small road and an open field. Might even be a farm or two out there.

The reckless and basically suicidal thought to confront the troopers did cross her mind. Shelly would have said, "Go for it." Her closest childhood friend had taken on some bullies when they'd been in middle school, literally beating all three boys into the ground, earning her a suspension for a month and summer school for two years.

But no one bothered Gaz after that, not like they bothered her before that anyway.

Unsurprisingly, it had been Shelly who had urged Gaz to join the Military, to take life by the horns, to bring out the warrior she was on the inside. She had cheered Gaz on through the Air Force Academy and beyond-

Until the cancer had struck.

_Sorry, Shell, I can't take them on this time. I think I'll beat them by running, not shooting. I've never been a great shot anyways._

* * *

When Staff Sergeant Dib Membrane, Captain David Smith, and Warrant Officer Samson walked into the RCMP station, they were confronted by an empty front desk. On the walls behind hung photos of Mounties wearing their Stetsons and scarlet tunics with lanyards slung across their chests.

"I see they got everything under control," Quipped Smith."They're at DEFCON One."

Dib laughed under his breath.

"It's early," Samson reminded them.

"Hands motherfuckers! Let me see your hands!" A male popped up from behind the desk, in his early twenties and dressed in the temperate woodland variant of the Canadian disruptive pattern (CADPAT) uniform, wielding a C9A2 LMG, training it on Dibs head.

The Canadian glanced at their uniforms and frowned before lining up his sights.

"Drop the weapons!" He shouted once more.

Dib raised his hands, his rifle swinging over to his back by the strap wrapped around his shoulder.

"Sir, I'm Sergeant Dib. This is Warrant Officer Samson, and Captain Smith. We're Marines from the United States. We need to speak with your squad or detachment commander, whatever you call him or her. And we need the mayor here immediately."

The soldier lowered his weapon and sighed. "Fucking Irkens man, I heard about those transports up north. Then we started getting weird Military broadcasts from them. We thought the satellite dish was messed up. Then they attacked us."

"Sir, if you could get those people here ASAP, we can help you."

Dib stepped away as one of his Weapons Sergeants, called on the radio to say they'd used their plasma cutters to gain entrance into a local sporting goods store and were securing more gear that could prove useful.

"Roger that, Zodiac Six's team will be around to pick you up, then rally on us."

It took ten precious minutes for the Canadian detachment commander and the mayor to arrive, the detachment commander, a Captain in his early thirties. And the mayor, an overweight man in his late fifties whose cholesterol levels had to be skyrocketing, Dib mused. But Dib appreciated the mayor's candor and easygoing demeanor when the man drawled, "What the hell's going on, boys?"

Captain Smith spelled it out for him, and Dib had never seen two men grow pale so quickly.

"You have to evacuate the entire town right now." Added Smith. "Get all the women and children in their cars, get on Highway 35, and get them down to Grande Prairie. That's where our brigade from the Tenth Mountain Division will be coming in. We'll set up camps for IDPs there."

"IDPs?" asked the mayor.

"Internally displaced persons," Answered Smith. "Trust me, in a few days, there will be tens of thousands of them."

"All right, let me get everybody I have out of there," Said the detachment commander.

"Just get those Suburbans rolling through those neighborhoods. Get on the bullhorn. Get em' out."

"You said only women and children," Repeated the mayor.

"Dib?" Said Captain Smith. "Why don't you explain it to him?"

Dib cleared his throat. "Sir, the Irkens will send recon elements first, by land and air. If we can hold them off until the Tenth arrives, we'll have control of Highways 35 and 58. That's what we need to do. The Irkens can't move their ground troops across the frozen lakes or through the snow. It's just too damned slow. They'll stick to the roads. They'll come to take the oil and gas fields at Rainbow Lake and Zama City west of here. And they'll need control of this town if they're going to push farther south. We can't let that happen. Sir, we're just two teams here, about twenty five Marines. We need every man willing to fight."

The mayor's jaw dropped. For a moment, he couldn't speak; then he managed, "Are you kidding me?"

"No, sir. And there's no time for a debate, They're coming to take your town. If you own a rifle, I suggest you get it."

"But this is Canada! We're not in the war. We're neutral, for God's sake."

The young Corporal who had aimed his weapon at Dib drew an unlit cigarette from his jacket pocket, shoved it in his mouth and lit it. "Tell that to the Irkens."

* * *

Harper and his Marines marched down the C-130's loading ramp, ready to set foot on the tarmac of Fort McMurray Airport. But before they could reach said tarmac, Colonel Stack accosted them. "Sergeant Harper?"

"Uh, yes, sir?"

"This your team?" The Colonel's gaze played over the five men standing on the ramp behind Harper.

"Yes, sir."

"You boys feel like taking a little ride?"

They all boomed: "Sir, yes, sir!"

"I'm talking way up north, behind enemy lines."

Harper smiled. "That's the way we roll, sir."

"Very well. It seems there's a pilot who got shot down. It seems the President has taken a liking to her. So this comes down from The Man himself."

"Sir, begging your pardon, sir, but it's obvious why you picked us. We're the best, of course, but-"

"Slow down, Sergeant. And stow that ego before you hurt someone with it. Truth is, I didn't pick you for this. I wanted your green Marine asses up on highway 63, but apparently there's a Major in Tampa who took orders from The Man, and she personally requested you boys."

"You hear that, Sergeant?" Cried Harper's assistant, Reilly Scott. "We haven't even dropped an Irken and we're already famous."

Harper grinned crookedly, then sliced the man with a look.

The Colonel went on, "So this Major heard you were the first team at the crash site in Cuba. She must've figured you're doing something right. Bad news is, best I got to get you up there is one of the older choppers. It's a UH-1Y. Might be a blessing. The Irkens might not take a potshot at something they haven't seen before. But that's your only ride up. I'm still working on your ride back home. There's a HMMWV coming off one of the other 130s. You'll hop on and take that up to Highland's hanger. Official warning orders to follow. Questions?"

"I assume we have the last known GPS coordinates of this pilot?"

"We do. She's northwest of Bechoko, though she hasn't activated her survival kit's beacon."

"Sat phone?"

"Iridium is down."

"So there's no guarantee she's even still alive."

"Sergeant, you come back with the women or her body. That's what The Man wants."

"Yes, sir."

Stack glanced off in the distance, shielding his eyes from the morning sun. "There's your ride now."

* * *

Staff Sergeant Dax Rarik sat inside the Stryker with the rest of his rifle squad. It would be at least another six hours before they reached the outskirts of Calgary, and the ride east on Interstate 90 had taken forever because of the patches of ice and civilians getting in the way to gape at the brigade rumbling east. They finally had turned onto 95 to head north.

The Strker's driver, Private First Class Kim Hassa, was a spunky, freckle-faced twenty one year old who kept Rarik entertained with her sarcastic remarks regarding the traffic, the weather, and anything else that struck her. She'd assume a General's deep drawl and announce into the intercom, "Gentlemen, the rules are different in this Stryker. We have a strict sexual harassment policy- we believe in it!"

And that'd inspire Rarik into a fit of laughter. In point of fact, Hassa didn't take any crap from anyone, but she loved to tease. The vehicle's Commander, Sergeant Tim Carlton, who was also wired into the intercom, allowed Hass her indulgences, and Rarik certainly appreciated that.

Rarik and his troops sat knee to knee, facing one another, their heavy packs and boxes of ammo, along with a half dozen AT-4s, jammed into the storage areas above and behind their seats. Since it was too loud to converse, they slept, read, or listened to music or watched videos on their iPods. The squad was divided into two teams, A and B. A team, had a Team Leader, a grenadier (GREN) who carried a rifle with attached M203 grenade launcher, an automatic rifleman (AR) with an M249 SAW (squad automatic weapon), and a rifleman with the AT-4 ainti tank weapon (RMAT). B team had all of the same, except the RMAT was replaced by a DM- a designated marksman equipped with an M16A4 with a heavier barrel, a bipod and improved optics.

While the Force Recon Marines, SEALs, and Army Special Forces were already fielding a lot of the new Future Force Warrior gear, budget restrictions along with heavy pressure from liberal antiwar lobbyists had forced the Army to push back implementation of most of that high tech equipment to general infantry to at least 2032, war notwithstanding.

The unnerving thing was, while Rarik and his people were headed into urban terrain with outdated weapons, the Irken infantry groups and types ranging anywhere from the basic Imperial Trooper all the way to the Zealots had dropped in with technology nearly 100 years more advanced than any other human weapon. Rariks squad could be facing anything from PRV-225 plasma rifles, the most common. The ESR-20 microwave weapon, delivering nearly 300,000 volts, or they could be using the new Type-6 OE/CW, a weapon that fired an orange transparent bullet, entering the body without leaving a mark, the small sting upon entry gave you a second before the round ignited from inside you, incinerating your body from the inside out in an instant. And of course, the threat of biological and chemical weapons always loomed.

"You guys are awful quiet," Said PFC Hassa.

"Just thinking, Hassa," Said Rarik. "I got a buddy who got sent up to High Level."

"Where the hell is that?"

"Way up in Alberta. I'm just hoping he's okay."

"Aw, come on! you believe that!?" She asked, interrupting him.

"What?"

"Bunch of kids in a pickup truck just drove by and flipped us the bird!"

"Call in some air support."

"I'll give them air support, all right."

"So, you guys want the good news or the bad news?" Said Carlton.

Rarik was about to answer when Hassa cursed and cut the wheel, the Stryker rumbling as they tipped sideways and left the road, bouncing onto the embankment.

"Oh, my god!" She cried.

(End chapter)


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Almost every vehicle in the brigade possessed a built in GPS to pinpoint their exact location. All you had to do was click on a blue icon to learn exactly which unit that was. If you saw an enemy, you could e-mail in the report, and red icons would appear on every display in the brigade. But when Private Hassa shouted and Sergeant Carlton added, "The screen's showing nothing. No enemy contacts,"

Sergeant Dax Rarik knew better and sprang into action. "We have to get out!"

"Hassa, stop!" Hollered Carlton.

"Let's move, down the ramp, go!" Rarik ordered.

Before the ramp had fully lowered, Rarik's squad was out on the embankment, up to their ankles in slush and snow. Smoke billowed from two of the four Strykers in Rarik's rifle platoon. Pieces of the road were gone. The stench of gasoline hung heavily in the air. With a whine, ramps opened on the two smoldering vehicles, and squads stumbled out, coughing and disoriented. A few guys fell to their knees.

The vehicle Commanders were already screaming for medics as still more troops leapt from the backs of the Strykers behind them, fanning out to sweep the area, a broad section of the interstate with literally no place to hide. And above, fighter planes sliced through the clouds, engines echoing.

"Irken Air Reapers? Steel Slicers? No way!" Shouted Carlton.

"They're ours!" Hollered Rarik. "That's a flight of Raptors."

"Did they fire on us?" Asked Carlton.

"I don't think so. They're covering." Rarik bit back a curse and jogged to the front of the Stryker, where Hassa was in her driver's hatch. "What'd you see?"

"They just lit up, one after another."

"Nothing dropped?"

"No. And we went over our vehicles with a fine toothed comb like we always do."

"Sergeant?" Rarik called to Carlton. "Better send up word. Those Green Vox bastards didn't stop at the mess hall."

"Oh, man. They must've planted them on the vehicles."

"Think about it. The Irkens planned their attack. They knew in advance we'd be called up. The Brigade hit the mess hall, now they hit us again. That's too much of a coincidence. What if the Green Brigade works for the Irkens?"

"Maybe."

Rarik sighed. "All right. A team? You got security." He cocked his thumb outward the still burning Strykers. "B team, go help em' out!"

About a quarter mile back, another explosion suddenly rocked the convoy. Then, six vehicles up, yet another series of booms.

"I'm getting the hell out of this ticking time bomb," Shouted Hassa, quickly dismounting from the vehicle and jogging away, as though it, too, would explode.

_This was exactly what the Irkens wanted_, thought Rarik. _Delays and paranoia_.

* * *

Sergeant Ray Harper and his frozen little band of Force Recon Marines piled onboard the UH-1Y helicopter, hauling themselves onto the chopper with their gear. The pilot, a rugged looking blond and in his late thirties nicknamed 'Dez,' Canadian Special Forces. He had a lot to say about his willingness to fly them into hell and back- not because he was pro America or pro Canada, because he was pro saving a fighter pilot's life. He'd been there, done that himself. So Colonel Stack had lucked out when he'd made that call to Highland to get them a pilot and a functioning chopper.

The bad news was that the helo had only a range of about three hundred miles, so they'd have to put down in High Level to refuel before heading up into the Northwest Territories. The rest of Dez's SF Company's own hanger there was empty, since they'd already assisted in the evacuation, but there was a fuel truck waiting for them.

Harper recalled that two ODA teams from the Army's Special Forces and Marine Corps were up there. And he learned via the network that at nearly the same time they reached the town, High Level might be paid an unexpected visit from some Spittlerunners inbound from Bechoko, part of an Irken combat and reconnaissance patrol (CRP) that would no doubt have mechanized forces on its heels. Not wanting Dez to get too excited if they rubbed shoulders with a few Irkens, Harper carefully filled him in over the intercom.

Surprisingly, the pilot said, "Well, if the Irkens are en route, let's get to the gas before they do. And hey, you like Subway? Quiznos? They even got Kentucky Fried."

Harper laughed a little. "We won't have time for lunch."

Dez smiled. "They got drive through."

* * *

What was left of the Canadian Forces and RCMP had gone through the town of High Level ordering everyone to evacuate to Highway 35, and Staff Sergeant Dib Membrane was getting reports from his team that the citizens were indeed complying. One of his cammo guys did say that he spotted quite a few men driving their families off; if Dib were married with children, he wondered whether he'd do the same. At the police station, members of the local Chamber of Commerce, along with the Sergeant and mayor, were in a huge debate over whether they should defend themselves or simply surrender to the Irkens in order to preserve the town and save lives.

Captain Smith and Warrant Officer Samson had walked out of that meeting, telling the townsfolk that they were welcomed to help but had no intentions of surrendering. A lot of the local men had told the mayor to kiss off. They were fighting to protect their town. Period. And their numbers were growing.

Meanwhile, Dib worked with about twenty Canadian Soldiers to set up the main roadblock north of town. Fortunately, demolition derbies were a big pastime in High Level, and with the driver's help, they were able to create a nice little wall of vehicles, even adding a couple of tractor trailers from the local lumber mill. This wall would channel oncoming mechanized forces to the left or right, into the embankments-

Where Dib and his men had set up a little high tech surprise that, when they were finished, left all of them wearing evil grins.

The roadblocks on 58 to the east and west were hardly as reinforced, containing just four cars each but manned by another twenty riflemen and soldiers that Dib organized into two teams. Nice thing was, quite a few of those guys were hunters who owned high powered rifles with scopes- one of the benefits of working with a more rural community.

The final roadblock on the south side of the town was not yet in place, since there was still a steady flow of evacuees. But they had another eighteen wheeler whose driver claimed he could flip the thing onto its side so that the entire trailer would lie across the road. He seemed eager to try that. At least thirty more guys would help hold that exit.

Finally, half of Dibs team had staked out the local airport, six miles southeast, with its single five thousand foot runway and small air terminal building. It seemed highly likely that at least some of the Irken Air Recon Forces would land there, the crews refueling while their Imperial Troopers dismounted. Dib's boys had negotiated a little something special for that party.

Dib figured that a few more Voot Cruisers, that were now more commonly seen throughout deployments, able to carry at least eight well armed troopers, landing, dropping the back ramp and dismounting, also being able to fit in smaller spaces and take off faster than a Spittlerunner could, would land in the downtown area, near the RCMP station, town hall, fire station, and the local hotel and motels. So that's where he and his half of the team were now positioned, strung out along the rooftops in sniper positions. Dib had found himself a nice perch above the town hall, near a large stone balustrade. He was in one corner of the rooftop, while Captain Smith was in the other.

In some respects, this was a classic foreign internal defense (FID) mission, often an exclusive task of Marines. The training of the resistance in occupied France during World War II was one of the more famous FID missions that Dib had studied. However, most teams had lost more time to train and organize the citizens. Still, Dib was proud of the work they'd accomplished in such a short time.

Though some of the other toys they wore had more to offer, Dib's team wore camera equipped Artisent ballistic assault helmets with laser target designation; the headgear subsystems' 180 degree emissive visors provided them with maps, routes, and other networked data in the cross com monocle below their left eyes. High bandwidth wireless communications, along with microelectronic/optics senor suite, provided 360 degree situational awareness and small arms protection.

At the moment, Dib worked the system's handheld controller, not unlike the ones used for video games. He studied a radar image being piped in to both ODA teams. Twelve glowing blips were superimposed over a local map. The blips morphed into the glowing silhouettes of inbound Irken Voot Cruisers with an ETA of about twenty minutes. After muttering a faint, "Whoa," he pulled up the camera images from every man on his team, silently making sure that each Marine was in place.

ODA-888, call sign Berserker, and ODA-887, call sign Zodiac, lay in wait.

Many ODA team members liked to pick radio call sign based upon the first letter of the team's name, with the detachment commander always being the team's name followed by the number six, for command. Dib didn't get why in his last team, they had called him "Viper," this time he had picked Doglyph, which in his opinion sounded cool. But when he'd been reassigned to Berserker, a "B" name had eluded him. The depression hadn't helped. It was Dax Rarik who had suggedted "Bali," short for balisong, referencing the knives they both collected and reminding Dib once more of the Venturi in his pocket.

Thus Dib Membrane, call sign "Bali," was reborn. Captain Smith got on the radio: "Berserker team, this is Berserker six. Enemy force inbound on your screens. Start with the plan. And if it goes to hell, you think. Adapt. Shoot. Move. Communicate. Are we clear?"

"HOOAH!" They all boomed over the channel.

"Hey, up there! Hey!"

The voice had come from below, and Dib peered over the rooftop to spy the mayor on the sidewalk below, shielding his eyes from the glare.

"Mr. Mayor!" Shouted Captain Smith. "They'll be here soon. Stay inside!"

"We've made a decision. It's the best for everyone. Now I need you people to come down. We're not going to offer any resistance when they arrive. We don't want any bloodshed." The Mayor was joined by the fire chief and a few civilians.

Before Captain Smith could reply- and Dib could shake his head in disbelief- Warrant Officer Samson's voice boomed over the radio: "Berserker Six, this is Black Bear. We got an inbound helo on radar, coming from the southeast. Lone aircraft, could be military. Trying to establish comm with that pilot now, over."

"Roger that," Said Smith. "We need him on the ground A-SAP!"

"I hear you, Six. Working on it."

The captain then lifted his voice. "Mr. Mayor, get inside. It's too late now."

"I won't. We need to wave our white flag, damn it. You're going to get us all killed!"

"They're going to kill you anyways," Cried Dib, unable to contain himself.

"Sergeant, I got this," Said Smith, who winked and hollered, "He's right. You don't get inside, you're dead."

The mayor dismissed them with a wave. "We'll see about that!"

(End chapter)


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Chieftain Major General Zim had convinced them to remove the straightjacket. He had no intention of hurting himself, and it was ridiculous for him to summon a guard every time he needed to use the small toilet in the corner of his cell. Besides, they had four cameras inside and two guards outside. If he so much as held his breath, they would be on him in seconds.

They had given him a small metal cot with a thin mattress and a Military issued blanket. His requests for reading material- for anything, really, to occupy his time- had been ignored. Moreover, it had been several hours since his last visit from the interrogators. So he lay there, staring up at the ceiling, burping up the remnants of MRE #7, meat loaf and gravy. It was no wonder the human soldiers so often retreated during combat; they were all running to the bathroom after consuming 1,200 calories of pure indigestion.

Zim draped an arm over his head and closed his eyes, longing to clear his mind...

They were back in her room now after a remarkable first date, and he looked into her eyes as she straddled him.

"Colonel," He began softly. "I didn't expect this."

"Neither did I."

Colonel Jul was even more beautiful in the shadows of her apartment, her curled antenna, usually bound into tight curls, fluttering like dark flames.

Following that fateful meeting on Irk, they became lovers and spent that next few months working out the logistics of her plan. She foisted her ideas upon her colleagues and summarily crushed those who challenged her in their meetings.

On the last night he had seen her alive, they'd went to another planet, Seracton IV, a very human planet, for an elegant dinner at his suggestion.

She'd been quiet throughout the meal.

And when he asked what was wrong, she snapped a him "I want you and me to leave the system. Does that make me a defective Irken?"

"No. But you know that's not possible. Not for someone in my position."

"Why not? You can't bear a few scars? All my life I've been The Empress, afraid my heart would melt me. But it is warm now. For you. And I'm not melting. I'm asking you to do something for me."

"And I'm telling you I can't."

She rose, stormed away from the table.

"Jul, please..."

He sat there for a few more minutes, paid the check, then went to a local bar for a drink. It was there he decided he would leave the system for her, no matter the cost. He did love her. As he left, he felt lighter, half his age, and suddenly very, very happy. But when he returned to her apartment, the entire floor was engulfed in flames, and he couldn't get anywhere near the area. He stood there in the street, the light snow falling on his head and shoulders, watching the firemen, the flames bending in the high wind, the other species of the universe, covering their mouths as they watched.

Two days later they identified her body. They said the fire had originated in her apartment and had been deliberately set. Arson. A suicide.

And Zim had been left wondering why.

Meanwhile, he continued to push forward with her plan. There was too much momentum, too much at stake.

It was what she would have wanted. But he just could not believe what she had done. And there was still no extinguishing the fire in his own heart.

For her.

He lay there in the cell, wishing he had been strong enough to tell her yes at that last moment.

_Yes, I will leave this. Yes, I want you._

Now he had lost the only thing that had mattered to him- more than the war, more than the Empire, everything.

He bolted up from the cot, faced one of the cameras.

"Get me Major Parsons! I'm ready to talk!"

* * *

Dez was speaking to one of the Marines cammo guys on the ground at the airport, all Sergeant Ray Harper could think was, _Damn, I was right. We got no luck._

"He wants to talk to you," said Dez, lifting his chin.

"This is Outlaw One, go ahead over," Harper said.

"Outlaw One, this is Beast, team Berserker, on the ground. Need you to put down A-SAP. Incoming enemy aircraft. ETA ten minutes, over."

"Roger that, Beast. We plan on to refuel and get the hell out of there, over."

"Negative, Outlaw One. You will remain on the ground until further notice, over."

"Beast, let me talk to your CO, over."

"Roger that, stand by."

After ten or so seconds, a voice crackled over the radio, "Outlaw One, this is Bali, over."

"Roger, Bali, I want to speak to the CO."

"Uh, sorry, he's got a little situation right here, asked me to talk to you, over."

"Bali, listen to me, we're going to refuel and try to get out before those inbound craft arrive, over."

"Negative."

"Bali, maybe you're not hearing me-"

"Outlaw One, you are instructed to land, begin your refueling, I'll let you know when you can take off."

Harper lost it. "Sergeant, we have orders from American Eagle himself! Do you read me?"

After a moments silence, Bali returned: "Outlaw One, I understand, but we have incoming enemy craft and a party planned. You can't ruin it. And to be honest with _you_, Sergeant, we could use your help."

"Roger that, Bali. We got orders that say otherwise, but, uh, we don't want to ruin your party plans. When we're on the ground, we'll see what we can do, understood?"

"Roger, Outlaw One. Link up with Black Bear at the main terminal. Bali, out."

Harper spoke into the intercom: "Listen up, guys. The Irkens will reach the town about ten minutes after we do, maybe less. Sucks for us, but we'll be in the process of refueling when they arrive. But we're also accidentally crashing a little party the other Marines have set up for them. So... The second the skids hit, we're out the door. We might need to lend these boys a hand before we get back in the air."

"It's just like that time my cousin went to fill up his boat before fishing, and the station was being robbed at the same time." Said Sergeant Scott.

"You think if your cousin knew the place was being hit he would've stopped for gas?"

"No way."

"Well, Scott, we're stopping anyways."

* * *

When Captain Smith returned to the roof, he told Dib that he'd managed to calm down the mayor and that he, a few Canadian soldiers, and the fire chief had persuaded the politician to suck it up, take responsibility, and defend his home. After all, there was no stopping the nearly five hundred citizens from High Level who had volunteered to remain and defend their homes. They were scattered throughout the town, some hiding in their own homes, poised to attack; others, like the Marines and Canadian Infantrymen, lining the rooftops or crouching in doorways. They were just ordinary folks, caught in an extraordinary situation.

One women in her late forties whose kids were already grown up carried a big hunting knife and a shotgun. She'd told Dib that the first Irken to cross her doorstep would be shot in the chest, wrapped in Hefty bags, and buried out in her backyard without a funeral. The second one, if he hadn't learned his lesson, wouldn't even get the burial.

The people of High level were not giving up without a fight, no matter the mayor's reservations.

As Dib crouched down once more, raising his binoculars to study the plains north of the town, Big Bear's voice sounded over the radio: "Outlaw team is just setting down."

* * *

Harper had instructed Dez to land near a thick stand of trees adjacent to the terminal. The wooded area would provide them with marginal cover, so the incoming Irken pilots might miss them. However, it was a cool, crisp morning, with lots of sunshine and visibility- painfully good visibility.

Such a pretty day for a battle.

The Bell UH-1Y Venom hit the dirt, and Harper put his mouth to work, sending off recon scouts Tristan and Szymanski to secure the fuel truck, while cammo guy Fritz and medic Gis guarded the helo. Dez said he would stay with the helo and supervise refueling, but if the Irkens started firing, he was out of there to get some action for himself. He carried a couple of rifles and pistols whose magazines he intended to empty. He also had four illegally procured, prototype fragmentation grenades. You had to love a Canadian Special Forces guy.

Meanwhile, Harper and Scott jogged across the parking lot toward the terminal, where a thick necked guy in uniform with an unlit cigar jutting from his mouth was walking out the glass doors.

"You Black Bear?" Asked Harper.

"Yep, Warrant Officer Samson, ODA-888 out of Fort Lewis." He proffered a gloved hand.

Harper shook firmly. "Sergeant Ray Harper, Force Recon, Thirteenth MEU out of Pendleton. This is Sergeant Scott, my assistant Team Leader. Well, we just came to fill her up and clean the windshield. Do we need a key for the bathroom?"

"Funny guy. Why don't you boys get up on the roof?"

"We'll stick with our bird, get the fuel, and get the hell out. We're headed up north on a TRAP mission."

"We don't stop those incoming craft, you're not going anywhere." Black Bear removed the cigar from his mouth. "Tell you what. You take up positions along the west wall, close to your bird. Stay out of sight. Get on our channel. You wait for us. All I'm going to say is 'Outlaw Team,' and you cut loose."

"Good enough. Good luck."

Black Bear nodded. "Good luck to us all."

* * *

Lieutenant Colonel Gaz Membrane ran along the wooden fence, keeping within a meter of it, hoping the poles might break up the vertical line that was the United States Air Force pilot shot down and fleeing. The farmhouse was just a thousand yards ahead, with a couple of barns in the back, a few horses, and another long building. The place stood postcard still.

_Almost there. Fight for it._

Nearly out of breath, her nose running, her legs on fire, she repeatedly glanced over her shoulder; there were no Irken Elites in sight. But as she left the fence to make a final mad dash to the main house, whose front door looked more inviting than anything in the world, the terrible whining of those engines drew near, and a glance back triggered a wave of panic.

She mounted the front stoop, wrenched open the screen door, tried the knob.

Open. Open? Well, what did she expect? She was in the middle of nowhere Canada, crime rate: zero.

Bursting into the house, she cried, "Hello? Hello? Is anyone home?"

It was a weekday morning, and a middle aged women in jeans and sweatshirt appeared from the kitchen beyond. "Who are you? What are you doing in our house?" She demanded.

A middle aged man with a graying beard came rushing forward, along with a long haired teenage boy, wearing a ball cap.

"Dad, there's a crazy lady with a gun in our living room," Said the boy, strangely calm. "And she's wearing a costume."

Gaz spoke a million miles a minute: "I'm Lieutenant Colonel Gaz Membrane, U.S. Air Force. I got shot down. Irkens are here. On Ice Saws. They're coming. Do you have a car?"

The father glanced down at the PDW-R in her grip and raised his hands. "If this is some kind of sick joke..."

"It's not a joke! Do you have a TV? Do you watch the news? The Irkens are invading Canada!" Gaz nearly screamed at the family.

"They were talking about some kind of Military maneuver on the morning show," Said the mother. "And now there's some weird Military program on every channel."

As the Ice saw engines grew louder, the teenager, unfazed by Gaz' weapon, darted to the front window, peeked past the curtain. "She's not lying. Looks like soldiers out there. They're coming!"

"I'll get my rifle," Said the father. "Joey, you take her and your mom to the basement."

"We can't stay! We have to go!" Gaz said.

"Well, Colonel, you picked the wrong address, because my pickup's battery is dead, and the only tractor I have would never outrun them. I was supposed to drive my boy to school."

Gaz waved her weapon, tipped her head toward the window. "Those are Irken Elites. Do you know what that means?"

"It means you'd better get in the basement!" Cried the father.

Without time to think, Gaz followed the boy and his mother through the kitchen, past an open door, and down a flight of rickety wooden steps. It was a full cellar, the entire footprint of the house, cluttered with boxes, machinery, a washing machine with a dryer, and clothes hanging from lines spanning the room.

The boy, Joey, switched the light off, but a dim shaft filtered in through the single window, up near the ceiling. Then he headed toward the back, where he wanted to hide between sheets of plywood leaning against the wall.

"No," Said Gaz. "You and your mom stay here. I'm under the steps. Go."

Even as she spoke, a crash resounded from upstairs, and a male voice shouted from the upstairs, "Come out, human pilot!"

(End chapter)


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

President Becerra leaned forward in his seat aboard Air Force One and sharpened his tone. "Prime Minister, Irken forces are in the streets of Edmonton and Calgary."

Emerson's tone turned equally sharp. "I'm well aware of that, Mr. President."

"They've captured your communications uplinks and early warning radar, and they've hacked into and now control your power grid."

"Yes, they have,"

"And my advisers tell me they've already begun psychological operations using their new Ring Cutter 220X electronic warfare craft. The Euros took out their first two, but two more and in the air. They're taking control of your radio, TV, Internet, even Military communications channels."

"I know that."

"My SEALs and Special Forces have infiltrated those areas, but they're only gathering intel. They tell me some of your local fire, police, and even small Military cells are fighting back, but they need help. They need you to take official and full Military action, otherwise I'll be watching executions on CNN."

"Mr. President-"

"They'll move your women and children to holding areas, to separate families and start terror. This is what they do, Prime Minister. This is how they control cities, whole words- through fear and intimidation."

Becerra glanced over at Hellenberg. The White House Chief of Staff shook his head from the other side of the table. He was off screen, but that didn't matter. Becerra displayed enough disgust for the both of them.

Emerson thought a moment. "I spoke with Red and Purple. If I make a move, the hammer will come down. I won't do this."

"They're bluffing. They've exhausted their resources over nearly a decade and a half ago. And they know the Euros will be in Edmonton soon."

"I think they're right. I think we have less to lose if we do nothing. And if we play the victim of two evil super powers, we might actually gain something: the world's sympathy."

"Prime Minister, you're making a terrible mistake. This is your Pearl Harbor. It's your time."

"No. Not yet."

"If not now, then when?"

"The situation is being carefully evaluated."

"That's a line for the media, not for me. Come on, Prime Minister! Together we can shut them down. Otherwise, it'll take time, resources, and your people will suffer the consequences."

"I understand."

"I hope so. Because at this time I'm informing you that one of our Stryker Combat Brigade Teams is en route to Calgary to help evacuate your civilians. They also have orders to take out enemy positions designated by our SEALs and Special Forces. I'm not asking for your permission, Prime Minister. If you won't save your people, we will, because doing so is in the best interest of the United States. For humanity."

Emerson slammed a fist on his desk, "Damn you, Becerra, you have no idea what a position I'm in! No idea!"

"It'll only get worse, Prime Minister."

"Look, we won't stop you from helping. But I can't take the risk. Not now."

"I'll check in again, once my brigade reaches Calgary. The Euros will be calling. Goodbye, Mr. Prime Minister." The second Becerra ended the call, he huffed and added, "What a fool. What a waste of time."

"General Kennedy's waiting to give you an update," Said Hellenberg.

"Before I take that, let me ask you something, Mark. We've known each other for a long time."

"Many years, sir."

"You think there's anything I could've said to that man?"

The Chief of Staff frowned. "As an old attorney, I'd say you made a good argument. You hit him with the facts and appealed to his emotions. But they're afraid to commit. Do you know how much money is resting on Emerson's decision?"

"Yes, like he said, the _position_ he's in. The Canadians ally with us, and their remaining overseas oil markets could crumble. The Chinese have already gobbled up most of their oil firms operating aboard. Sure, they know they'll never lose us as customers, so they can take the gamble, hold out, see what they can get."

"These are games for the academics to figure out. Right now there's a war to fight."

Becerra nodded, tapped the screen, and there he was, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Daniel Kennedy, looking slightly less rankled than the last time they'd spoken. "General, sorry to keep you waiting," He began.

"That's quite all right, Mr. President. We have intelligence coming from multiple command posts. As always, it's information overload, but here are the highlights. The company of Marines up in High Level is about to engage an Irken recon patrol from Behchoko. Unfortunately, that TRAP mission you asked for is being conducted by a Force Recon team who just landed in High Level to refuel. They could get caught up in the fighting up there."

"Damn, I hope not."

"Good news from the _Olympia_ up in Coronation Gulf. Her Skipper says they wiped out the Irken task force and have moved to the mouth of the Dolphin and Union Strait, a natural choke point uncovered by anti air. He's got us covered up there."

As the General spoke, Becerra watched images of the crashed and burning ships captured by the Battle Cruiser. The sight left him awestruck.

"The first sorties carrying our brigade from the Tenth Mountain Division have landed without incident in Grande Prairie, and the Marines from Pendleton have begun their deep reconnaissance up Highway 63, north of Fort McMurray. They'll be reinforced by at least one follow on Euro battalion, I'm told. No ETA on the Euros arrival yet."

"I'll contact General Bankolé to see what's holding them up."

"Mr. President, I hate to use this phrase, but it's been bandied about in the past few hours. What we're seeing so far from the Irkens is an invasion plan, but one with a real failure of imagination."

"Well, you've made me wince, so now you'd better explain."

"The Irkens are using all available avenues of approach, initiating the operation with basically no surprises. We expected them to seize those key towns up north to keep avenues open, which they are doing. We know they'll push down 63 and 35. We've already seen them drop a separate battalion augmented with petroleum specialists to help gain control of the fields and refineries up near Fort McMurray. And we know they're using avgas up in Behchoko to refuel their aircraft. They sent some of those refueled transports farther south. The first flight passed Edmonton, so we believe they're either bound for Calgary or maybe they'll put down in Red Deer, right between the two cities. There's a regional airport there that they might use as a staging area, sending infantry both north and south to the cities. Initially, they'll need at least a battalion to fully secure each city until their reinforcements arrive."

"How are we doing in the air?"

"So far the space backbone layer remains clear since the destruction of the ISS. European laser satellites and the Kinetic strike platforms are fully operational. We've secured some dormant Russian laser and plasma platforms, but they're low on energy. We've managed to disrupt the Irkens' airborne network layer with the Euros lasers, taking out the first surveillance and 220X craft, but this won't last for long, since their fuel cells will need to recharge. We can take out transports, but, as always, collateral damage is a primary concern, especially once they get near the cities."

"Yes, and the joint chiefs know very well how I feel about that."

He nodded. "You shoot a missile at one of the largest transports this world has ever seen and it crash lands in downtown Edmonton, suddenly we're the terrorists, invasion or not."

"We won't let that happen."

"No, sir." He regarded his notes. "The fighters from Alaska have had only limited success up in the NWT, given the Irken Air Reapers and Steel Slicers, that and the Canadian C-130s and F-18s pulling out, but with the infrastructure concerns, the joint chiefs continue to assert this will be a ground war with close air support. The Irkens seem to agree. We've seen no evidence that they're readying strategic bombers. If they take Alberta, they'll want to take it intact. Again, no surprises. The Rules on Engagement seem remarkably clear. The only unexpected thing they did was launch this attack during winter, making ground movements that more difficult- but that goes for both sides."

"You seem bothered by all this."

He hesitated. "Given our dealings with the IMID in the past decades, sir, it would be foolish to think this is all they have planned."

"For all our sakes, I hope those fools on the moon and Irk know where to stop."

"Me, too. But while it's perfectly logical for them to want control over the reserves in Alberta, you always wonder: is this just a diversion to keep on Canada while they slip one under the table?"

"So we keep an eye on Canada and one on the rest of the world."

"Yes, sir, oh yes, one more smaller matter. Green Vox and his cronies are back at it. They've delayed the Stryker brigade heading to Calgary."

"What happened?"

"Not sure. Reports indicate they might have planted IEDs. But those weren't roadside bombs. They might have been planted in the vehicles before they even left Fort Lewis. If that's the case, it was definitely an inside job. Those crews were trained to go over their vehicles very carefully."

"If a bomb is made to resemble a component that's already there, how do you check for that?" asked Becerra.

"Exactly."

"And they're moving again?"

"Just in the last hour."

"Good."

"But this is what bothers me, sir. For the past eight years, the Green Brigade has hit targets all over the world, significant targets."

"And you're wondering why they'd attacked Fort Lewis, then disrupt the convoy?"

"Two smaller bombs just went off at Fort McMurray Airport, where our Marines have landed. No one was hurt."

"So the Irkens have Vox back on their payroll. Another failure of imagination, eh?"

"Maybe so. I'm sure time will tell. Well, that's for now, Mr. President."

"Thank you. And General, when that Irken Recon Force hits High Level, I'd like to monitor those channels."

"Absolutely. Should be any minute now."

* * *

_"Where's everyone else? Where are they?"_

_The lieutenant shook his head as his eyes plastered themselves to the floor._

_Vargas and the medic were no longer moving, the engineer was clutching his leg, shot in femoral artery and bleeding all over the bay floor._

_Just then, McLeod pulled his bloody and scorched jacket open, revealing a pair of dark holes. He wouldn't make it, and neither would the engineer._

_"We need help!" Dib cried out to one of the door gunners._

_The guy ignored him, tending to his own shoulder wound._

_Gritting his teeth, Dib pulled himself over to the Irken, wrenched up the helmets visor, and grabbed him by the neck "Are you worth it, you bastard?"_

_The Irken stared up with his vacant ruby eyes._

_Dib glanced back to the remains of his team, then glared at the general once more and screamed, _"Are you worth it!?"

"They're splitting up now!" Cried Black Bear over the radio.

Staff Sergeant Dib Membrane shivered. Looking down, he saw his gloved hands formed into fists and felt the sweat pouring down his face, despite the cold wind blowing across the town hall's rooftop.

_Don't do that again, H_e ordered himself. _This isn't about revenge. Stick to the plan, the mission._

"Oh damn, looks like a couple of Storm Elites heading toward downtown. Two more holding back, probably scouts. Four of them breaking off, coming for us at the airport. The other four? Not sure where they're going yet. Looks like the scouts see the roadblock, over."

Captain Smith, still to Dib's right, was working across his Cross-Com, studying imagery coming in from Black Bear's men at the airport. Suddenly he cried, "They're jamming us!"

Dib checked his own channel: static. No voice, data, imagery.

Didn't matter. They'd hoped for the best, prepared for the worst, as always.

Every Marine knew his role.

They just needed the Irkens to be good enemy soldiers and die according to the plan.

The two Voot Cruisers, painted in camouflage patterns, swooped down into the middle of the broad intersection, their roaring engines echoing so loudly off the buildings that Dib wished he had shoved in his ear plugs. The two aircraft baring the mark of the Empire on each engine canopy on either side of their fuselages.

A close look through his binoculars yielded more of than expected: Imperial Troopers visible behind the two crew members in the larger cockpits of the newer Voot's. Dib assumed the hold was jammed to capacity: sixteen troops and the Crew Chief manning the rear door gun. Their landing gear unfolded, their noses pitched up, and they set down, one after the other.

Dib didn't need to give the order. His Weapons Sergeants knew exactly what do to next. All of them did.

He took in a long breath-

And the battle began.

(End chapter)


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty One

Still crouched beneath the cellar staircase and not moving a muscle, Lieutenant Colonel Gaz Membrane listened to the commotion going on upstairs:

"Where is she?"

"Who?" Asked the father.

"The human pilot!"

"I don't know!"

The questioning Irken roared in annoyance, and the distinct metallic discharge of a PRV-225 boomed, causing the mother to cry out, and Gaz thought,

_This is it. Game over._

They had killed the husband. They would come down and finish the job. Suddenly, the mother bolted from her hiding place in the back and charged toward the stairs, where one of the Elites was just coming down.

"Don't shoot!"

He did.

Put a bolt in her chest.

But half a second after he fired, so did Gaz, carefully aiming between the slots of the wooden stairs, her round coming up between his legs and into his torso.

He tumbled forward, his rifle tumbling down the stairs and dropping to the concrete floor. Before Gaz could come out and grab it, the boy was there, snatching the rifle. He panted as he looked at his mother slumped across the floor-

Then a creak from the stairs seized his attention. He cut loose a dozen energized bolts.

Yet another Elite slumped and tumbled halfway down the stairs.

Gaz darted across the room, got up on a chair, broke out the window with the butt of her weapon, then hoisted herself up and squeezed through the hole.

"Come on!" She cried, reaching out for Joey.

He raced over and took her hand, just as a metallic thump sounded, followed by a loud hissing: gas.

They'd killed two. Had the father shot one? Maybe.

There'd only be three left, then, she thought.

Out in the snow, she and the boy ran straight for the barn, about a hundred yards away.

PRV-225 fire boomed behind them.

She hazarded to look back. One Elite, who had come out the back door, had just spotted them.

"Run!" She screamed.

* * *

Sergeant Ray Harper wasn't shaking in fear but in frustration. His men had the fuel truck pulled up beside the UH-1Y, the hose attached to the bird. However, filling the tanks took time. Too much damned time.

_Come on, come on!_

The Irken Voot's were twenty meters above the tarmac, then, five...

He tightened up against the wall, his helmet and combat systems fully activated, his Heckler & Koch XM10 assault rifle, one of few prototypes on the field, at the ready.

Marines nowadays sometimes handpicked his own weapons, even buying a few fancy toys themselves, and Harper had recently been experimenting with the XM10, a weapon whose earlier version, the XM9, had been abandoned by the Military.

Like the XM9 and the M8A2, the 10 was a modular weapon with four variants: a baseline carbine, a compact carbine, a sharpshooter, and a heavy barreled automatic rifle. Harper carried the baseline variant with attached XM322 grenade launcher.

Harper glanced off to his left, where Tristan lay prone beneath a tree, eye pressed to the scope of his M82A1 sniper rifle with its bipod dug deep in the snow. He'd taken the big girl along for the ride, and her .50 caliber rounds would easily penetrate the fuselages of those Voot's, the booming alone was enough to strike fear into the hearts of any enemy.

Gis had positioned himself a couple meters farther south, near another tree, his SAW balanced on its bipod. Radio Operator Fritz and Assistant Team Leader Scott were closer to the chopper, each armed with an MR-C (Modular Rifle, Caseless) which fired 6.8mm Caseless SABOT ammo at a rate of nine hundred rounds per minute. Both weapons were also equipped with rail mounted 40mm grenade launchers.

All of which was to say the boys from the Force Recon were good to go and waiting for show time.

But the order to fire would never come, Harper realized. The Irkens were jamming all communications. He would let the other Marines take the first shots, as they had indicated. His years of experience would tell him when to engage his men.

The first two Voot's touched down, the third and fourth only seconds behind.

From somewhere on the other side of the terminal came a boom and hiss, followed by a white streak that spanned the tarmac in the blink of an eye, reached the lead Voot-

And detonated directly over the canopy.

After the initial explosion, two more quickly followed, knocking the Voot on its side, one engine kicking up ice and asphalt, while the other burst and sent flames shooting from the cockpit, shattering the main viewing window. Those other guys must've brought an AT-4 from their cache back home.

Jagged pieces of fuselage and engine components from the first Voot flew into the second, striking its front window, going through it like a hot knife through butter, striking and kill both the pilot and co-pilot, just as the rear ramp dropped down and the first troopers tried to get out. Meanwhile, the third and fourth Voot's began to lift off.

Harper craned his head toward the forest. "Outlaw Team, fire!" Even as he issued the order, he burst from his position and launched a grenade at the large window of the second Voot.

The first few troopers to disembark were cut down by Gis's machine gun- and as they slumped, Harper's grenade smashed through the window and flew into the Voot's crew compartment as the troopers scrambled.

_What a shot!_

With a slightly dampened boom, the grenade exploded, shredding the Irkens inside and blanketing the chopper in thick, gray smoke.

The roaring of more engines from behind sent Harper's gaze skyward. For a moment, his heart sank as he assumed more enemy troops were inbound. But no. He had to blink and shake his head to be sure he was seeing them: a pair of older MH-53 Pave Low's with Canadian Airmen manning the 7.62mm M134 guns out the side doors, already opening fire on the two Irken Voots below.

Harper had to hand it to the other Marine group, who'd managed to recruit those pilots and convinced those Airmen to board the choppers. Sure, it wasn't much air support, but he'd take it.

Tristan let his first round fly, the rifle emitting a crack of thunder that rattled the buildings. He was targeting the crew members of the third Voot. His round punched a gaping hole in the canopy and blew the pilot to pieces, the co-pilot unstrapping his belt and vacating his chair as quick as he could.

The bird wasn't going anywhere now. It dropped back toward the tarmac, hit hard, then began to bank erratically over the grass, as Gis raked it with more fire.

The access side door popped open, and a few Imperial Troopers leapt out, hit the ground, and came up firing-

But they were quickly cut down by the soldiers in the air, helos sweeping over them, rounds sparking as they ricocheted off the street.

Harper was ready to call it a day. Dez was giving him the high sign: the tank's full, let's boogie.

"All right, Out Law Team," Harper began.

The sudden hissing and sparking of new fire on the wall behind him, on the ground, the snow, and over his head sent him diving into his gut. And just beyond the chopper, in the forest, came at least a dozen Imperial Troopers, probably two full squads, with one of the Irkens dropping to one knee, balancing a large tube like weapon in his shoulder.

Harper's mouth fell open. He recognized an RPO-A126, or "Bumblebee," when he saw one. This weapon fired an energized, thermobaric projectile utilizing advanced fuel air explosive techniques. Some described the weapon as a flamethrower, but it was more like a fiery plasma bolt with a flamethrowers aftereffects, burning for a very long time.

The trooper aimed it at the fully fueled UH-1Y.

"Get out of there!" Harper cried to Dez, Scott, and Fritz. "Get out!" At the same time, he cut loose with his XM10, directing all of his fire on the trooper with the Bumblebee. Squinting against the smoke from his barrel wafting into his eyes, Harper watched the trooper fall forward and drop the weapon, just as Dez, Scott, and Fritz came running toward them, plasma bolts raking their paths.

Gis swung his weapon around and began to suppress the oncoming troopers, but Harper already saw they couldn't hold them back for long. And yet another trooper picked up the Bumblebee and was leveling it on his shoulder.

Harper fired at that trooper, dropped him, then another salvo sent him rolling to the left, out of the bead. He felt a dull pressure on his shoulders as a few bolts struck his Crye integrated body armor, but he was okay.

"God _damn,_ Jonesy, you would've loved this," He grunted, wishing his old assistant were here in the fray.

Then he cried, "Outlaws, fall back to the front of the terminal. NOW!"

As his men continued, still returning fire, Harper got to his feet and did likewise. He chanced a look back, saw yet another Irken shouldering the Bumblebee, shifting behind a tree, into complete cover.

There was no stopping that concentrated bolt from being launched now.

Harper sprinted forward, reached the corner, and ducked around to his left, just as a massive explosion struck like lightning from a thousand storm clouds. A gasp later, the concussion wave struck, lifting him a meter into the air, then knocking him onto his belly.

With the whoosh and roar of the flames still resounding, accomplished by an unbearable gasoline stench that seemed to clog the hot air, Harper felt a hand latch onto his wrist and pull him to his feet.

"They blew up my goddamned chopper!" Shouted Dez, releasing him. "They blew it up!"

Just then, the two choppers swooped down, the Canadian soldiers ready to strafe the oncoming infantry behind them.

"Forget the bird. I'll buy you another one!" Cried Harper. "Let's get some cover!"

Ahead lay a garage, home of the airport's fire crew. They swept along the main terminal, headed for that-

One of the terminal doors opened, and Black Bear appeared. "Marines, get in here now!"

"Do what he says," Hollered Harper.

They filed into the terminal, stealing a moment to catch their breathes.

Black Bear smiled, removed the cigar. "Guess you boys will be staying a while."

(End chapter)


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty Two

While they usually packed heavily, Staff Sergeant Dib Membrane's team, along with the rest of the Company, had opted to haul some bigger gear up to High Level, especially when faced with a cold weather operation against a numerically and technologically superior force.

Fortunately for them, some of that equipment had made it out of the C-130 before the missile had struck. Their AT-4 and FGM-148 Javelin had survived, along with a couple of other surprises still waiting for the Irkens.

The boys at the airport had taken the AT-4. Dib's team had the Javelin, and he tensed now as the missile, fired from the other side of town, dropped like Thor's Hammer on top of an Irken Ripper.

Well, the U.S. government would have to make some reparations to the townsfolk of High Level, Alberta-

Because the Ripper burst apart, raining gagged pieces of steal, tubes, and wires onto the surrounding buildings. Doors folded in, and large glass windows shattered into the road. Still more brick facades crumbled, and a steel street sign was cut down like a blade of grass. More shrapnel and other debris hurtled toward the three Voot Cruisers below, whose troops were already jumping down, the Ripper erupted in a bright flash of green, the Irkens below succumbing to the blast.

Dib firmly gripped his pistol like combat weapon, nicknamed Lethality Central, LC for short. The first 12mm, cold launched, intelligent seeker round streaked away from one of the weapons five tubes, homed in on one of the landing Voot Cruisers open side doors, and punched through several troopers.

Dib triggered two more rounds, saving the 4.6mm projectiles in tube number five for close encounters of the final kind.

One of the Canadian soldiers down below ran out in the street and rolled a grenade beneath the landed Voot. The pilot couldn't achieve liftoff in time, and the blast sent him banking sideways. With a grinding, crunching, glass shattering racket, the Voot thrust its way into the local courthouse. The engines erupted and pieces of metal were sent into the air like knives thrown in a circus act as the Voots nose vanished inside the building.

Another grenade, this one launched by Dib's engineer, dropped beside the next Voot, the detonation opening up the bird's fuel tanks, and the blue flames quickly rose, triggering several more explosions.

Wind whipped smoke appeared in the distant north. Dib seized his binoculars and swore as one of the Irken Voots fired rockets on the main road block. He'd been hoping they'd leave that obstacle to the mechanized infantry, but sometimes luck- and bullets- ran out.

Those soldiers and hunters manning the roadblock couldn't do much against that bird, and they wouldn't last long against it either. Dib already felt the pang of their loss. A brother crying out for another to wake up as the others hopelessly fired at the craft flying over head.

"Bali, this is Black Bear, over."

The voice surprised Dib, and he switched to Cross Com to an image piped in from Smith's helmet camera. "Bear, this is Bali, go ahead, over."

"Communications are back. That Ripper must have been carrying their jamming equipment. Anyway, we've taken out our four Voots, but we got twenty, thirty Imperial Troopers on the ground from at least two we didn't get, moving toward the terminal, over."

"Roger that. We destroyed our two Voots. Still got one out by the northern roadblock. No location for the rest, over."

"Yeah, I see the smoke."

"Black Bear, hold them there. If we don't get any more visitors, we'll rally at your position, over."

"Sounds good, Black Bear, out."

Captain Smith, who was coordinating Marines with Captain Vargas from 887, said those guys were sending a truck out to the roadblock to see if they could assist with the fires on that Voot.

Meanwhile, roaring of more engines drove Dib to the opposite side of the roof. Down below, in the side street, a Voot Cruiser had just landed, the rear ramp already on the ground, and troops began pouring out. He cursed, got pack on the radio, told his men to expect dismounts in the area.

Then he express delivered another pair of guided munitions down on the Voot through its canopy. He slipped the LC into his Blackhawk SERPA holster, took up his MR-C rifle, and fired down on the still exiting infantry.

The Imperial Troopers rushed around the Voot and began returning fire, bolts tearing up the stone balustrade as Dib rolled back for cover.

"We have to get down," He shouted to Smith, who was still speaking to Vargas. "They're getting inside! They'll come up and cut us off!"

"All right," Cried the Captain.

Plasma discharge was already heard drumming from somewhere below as Dib wrenched open the door leading into the dark stairwell.

He rushed down to the first landing, turned-

And locked gazed with a Storm Elite below whose rifle was still pointed down.

While Dib's first reaction should've been to lift his rifle and fire, adrenaline had already taken over.

And muscle memory.

And a rage simmering deep down.

He launched himself from the landing and crashed down onto the Irken before the enemy soldier could react. They fell onto the floor, the Irkens rifle knocked free, Dib's weapon having dropped somewhere behind him.

The Irken's left hand was going for the P-44 sidearm holstered at his waist. Dib seized that wrist with his right hand, now unable to draw his own LC from the SERPA holster.

"Get him, Sergeant!" Shouted Smith, who had just reached the landing above.

But Dib couldn't stop the Irken's right hand from coming up and dropping down to activate the Storm Elites blade, the dark was lit with a magneta tinge as the energy blade emitting from his wrist came to life with sparks. The specially trained Elite thrust upward the eight inch blade, and Dib took hold of the guys forearm, the blade poised inches from his cheek, feeling the heat vapor emitting from it.

The Irken raged aloud, roaring as he fought against Dib's grip, as the Captain yelled, "Move, I can't get a shot!"

Drawing a quick breath, Dib did three things: released his grip on the Elite, threw his head back away from the blade, then forced himself onto his rump while drawing his LC.

He fired.

Nothing. _What the..._

Dib realized in that horrible moment that he'd failed to switch the pistol from the guided munitions to the stacked 4.6mm rounds for close quarters, which was why she clicked empty.

Another shot rang out from above: Smith.

The rounds struck the Irkens shoulder, punching into his armor, the Irken barely flinched and growled as he deactivated the blade of energy. Going for his P-44 again.

Dib thought of the Blackhawk caracara blade he always packed for those up close and personal moments, but it was buried deep in one of his hip pockets.

The seven inch fixed blade he carried, the Masters of Defense Mark V, was held tight in its sheath strapped farther down his hip.

But Dax Rarik's prized balisong, the Venturi, was right there, in a narrow pocket much higher on his hip.

_Sorry, Dax._

In the span of two heartbeats Dib had the Venturi in his hand, pinky popping the bottom latch, bite handle dropping then swinging up to lock the blade in the open position. The Irken was sliding his sidearm out of its holster-

Dib dove forward for the kill, thrusting his blade deep into the Elites neck to sever his spinal cord. Gunfire resounded over his shoulder, and Smith was there. He landed a bullet in the Irkens head as Dib withdrew the balisong's Damascus blade.

"I put up the word to mask up," Said Smith.

"Now that they know we're here."

Dib rose, covered in blood. He closed the balisong and returned it to his pocket, then slid off his light pack to fish out his mask. They didn't have full nuclear, biological, or chemical (NBC) subsystems of the full MOPP 4 helmets and suits, but the lightweight masks would help.

He froze as more footfalls sounded in the stairwell.

Silently, he motioned for Smith to halt, then reached into his tactical vest, tugged free a fragmentation grenade, pulled the pin, and tossed it down the stairs.

* * *

Lieutenant Colonel Gaz Membrane and Joey reached the barn and darted inside, then moved to the window to catch sight of the remaining Elites. She'd been right. Just three left now, and all charged forward, widening the distance between one another, plasma rifles held menacingly.

With three of their brothers dead, they wanted much more than a downed pilot.

The boy's face was scrunched up in agony, tears finally slipping from his eyes. "They killed my mom and dad."

"And they'll kill us."

"My parents are dead _because of you_!" He leveled the automatic directed energy weapon on her.

She slowly raised her hands, one still clutching her PDW. "Well, Joey, we got about ten seconds before they get here. They don't care. They'll shoot- Both of us."

The barn door beside them burst open-

But no one charged in.

"Human pilot? Come out with your hands up!" A female voice demanded.

Gaz bolted to the wall, then sprinted for the door on the opposite end of the barn. She already knew at least one more Elite had been waiting there.

Joey charged behind her, reaching for the door handle.

"No!" She whispered. "Wait."

She reached out, opened the door, and rolled back inside the barn-

Weapon fire ripped through the doorway. At the same time, the female Elite appeared in the opposite doorway. Joey spotted her first.

Just hours ago the kid had been an innocent farm boy living in a rural paradise. Now he jammed down the trigger of his rifle, wise enough to aim for the Elite's legs because the Irken wore body armor. Then Joey rushed across the room, since the Elite was still moving, getting ready to draw her P-44 sidearm.

Gaz wanted to scream for him to come back, but it was too late. He rushed forward and shot the Irken in the head, even as the other two Elites burst into the barn, immediately cutting him down.

Gaz, who was near the door, came in behind the first Elite, shot him point blank in the neck. But the second Irken whirled, aimed his rifle at Gaz.

_I'm dead..._

She flinched, but the Elite suddenly staggered back, bolts punching into his chest and neck.

Gaz slammed onto her gut, dirt and hay wafting into her face.

She glanced over into the lifeless eyes of the Irken.

Then she lifted her head.

Joey was on the ground, clutching his rifle with one hand, his chest with the other, blood pouring between his fingers.

"Joey?"

She rose slowly, making sure all three Elites were not moving, then she went to him, took his head in her lap.

"It's not fair," he said, coughing up blood and dropping his rifle.

Gaz's voice was gone.

_No, it's not._

He grew very still, and then... He was gone.

She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

But she couldn't lose it. Now now. More troops, maybe Elites or Invaders would come. She had to get the weapons, an Ice Saw. She had to get moving!

Gingerly, she slid out from beneath Joey, placed his head gently on the ground. Then, frantically, she grabbed a couple of the rifles, another sidearm, two more clips, and rushed from the barn, her mind raced quickly.

_Get inside. Get her clothes, civilian clothes. Activate the beacon or they'll never find you._

She reached the house, stormed into the master bedroom, tore through the women's closet, and found herself jeans, a sweatshirt, a heavy winter jacket, hat, scarf, gloves.

Back in the kitchen. She grimaced and stepped over the father's body to tear though the refrigerator, grabbing a couple bottles of water and some apples. There, still trembling, she went to the cupboard and seized an unopened package of cookies and some canned goods. She went to the drawers, throwing stuff everywhere, trying to find a can opener. Then she cursed, tossed the cans, and grabbed the rest.

She gathered more ammo from the Elites, tucking it all into a pillowcase like some burglar, then found the keys to one of the Ice Saws in the pocket of a dead troop.

On the table in the entrance foyer sat a picture of the happy family. Gaz stared at it for a few seconds before charging outside.

After opening the canopy located at the center of the vehicle, she set down the pillowcase on the front seat, climbed up to the higher rear seat, closed the canopy, fired up the engine and ordered herself not to look back. She sped away, heading due south, leaving a rooster tail of snow in her wake.

She wiped the tears rolling down her cheek after a moment and leaned into the steering gear of the vehicle.

The fuel tank held about ten liters, just over two gallons of gas, and the Irkens had already used another ten to get to the barn. She wasn't sure how far she'd get, but she'd ride until the tank was empty.

A broad, flat plain of snow lay ahead, and more trees stood on the far horizon. She steered for them.

(End chapter)


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty Three

"You're wasting my time, General." Major Katrina Parsons sat at her station in the command post, arms folded over her chest, and sneered at the broken and defeated Irken on the screen.

"I did not talk under the influence of your drugs."

"Sorry, but you did."

"I did not!"

"You told us everything you know- which is, unfortunately, not enough."

Chieftain Major General Zim's antenna rose then came together as he began nervously rubbing his chin. "You tell me what I said."

"All right. Operation 2659 is the invasion of Alberta."

Zim dropped his arms and slumped over as he looked at the camera. "That's shocking," He said sarcastically. "I can't believe you beat that one out of me."

"The twenty six represents the duration of time you've given yourselves to gain full control of the province. But if, after twenty six days, you've failed in that mission, the second part of your plan takes place, activation code five nine."

Zim's mouth began to open, as he realized that he had, in fact talked, but not willingly, as he pretended he wanted to do now.

She went on, "The Empress was, in fact, Colonel Jul, with whom you were in a relationship with until she went home one night and set fire to her apartment, killing herself and four of her neighbors."

"I did not tell you that!"

"Yes you did. Maybe you thought you were remembering it, but you were telling us. I'll ask you one last time, but I don't expect you to know the answer: The activation code, what is it for? A second invasion fleet? An orbital bombardment? What?"

He sighed loudly for effect. "Don't you think if I told you all this I would have told you what the activation code was for? I'm not aware of any activation code."

"Yes you are. She told you about the code. But she never told you what it meant. And then she died. So we're finished talking, you and I."

"Wait a minute... Major. If I told you everything already, then why did you agree to meet with me?"

She shrugged. "Just for confirmation."

"No. I don't believe that." Zim rose to his feet and burrowed deep into her eyes with his own, "I think... I think you are attracted to me."

"You're a sick bastard."

"No. I think you are attracted to me because I have control over you. And you like that. You are always in control. And it's so hard, isn't it? Wouldn't it be better to let me take care of everything for you? Maybe we can work together. Maybe there's still hope... For you and I."

She rolled her eyes and thumbed off the call.

But she was trembling, visibly trembling.

He was under her skin again, coursing through her veins like a poison.

She wanted to kill him.

Because, maybe... Maybe he was right.

* * *

"We'll split up and flank them," Said Black Bear over the radio. He looked up at Sergeant Ray Harper. "I'll need you guys up top."

Sergeant Scott had gone to another back door and had spotted a Spittle Runner on the ground, just behind the fire crew's garage. The pilot and co-pilot were still inside, engines roaring. Harper wasn't sure if they were having a technical problem or just waiting to pick up troopers, but he didn't care. All he saw was an enemy bird worth capturing and taking back into enemy territory to pick up that fighter pilot.

Better to fly in with a big Irken Empire insignia tattooed on their butt instead of a bull's eye.

But he was torn between helping out the other Marines and the mission.

Oh, damn, he had to go with the mission; it came down from The Man himself.

He had to... What he had to do. The apologies would come later, if these guys had made it out.

"Dez, you think you can fly that thing?"

The pilot made a face. "Don't insult me. If it's got an engine and can get airborne, I can fly it."

"All right," Harper said, eyeing the entire group. "We make a run for the garage. I don't think they can see us from this angle. Then from the garage we move to the bird." Harper looked once more at Dez. "Will a couple of holes in the canopy be a big deal?"

"Don't chance that. Just show em' a grenade and get em' to open up."

"All right then. Tristan? Gis? You set up outside cover."

The sniper and medic nodded.

"Let's go!"

* * *

During the first Irken invasion on Earth, a secret Military research facility somewhere in Russia was found, where according to some captured Irken chemical scientists HNC-1 was developed. The drug took effect within a few seconds of inhalment and left victims unconscious for two to six hours.

In 2014, during the evacuation in Seattle, the Irkens deployed large canisters of HNC-1 from the air. However, large doses of the prototype chemical may have contributed to the death of more then eight hundred of the population evacuating.

Intelligence gathered from Irken Empire defectors between 2018 and 2020 indicated that the Irkens had made further refinements to the incapacitating agent in order to make it "more safe," though they had thus far not used HNC-1 against civilian populations.

Consequently, Dib felt a deep sense of dread as he and Captain Smith stepped over the soldier they had killed with the grenade and headed down to the ground floor of the town hall, where they found the mayor and half a dozen other town leaders lying on the floor, a beer can size canister still emitting dense, purple gas beside them.

They checked for pulses. "Still alive over here," Said Smith, voice muffled through his mask.

"Here, too."

"Looks like they're hitting them where they find them with small concentrations."

"Good. We may not need our masks outside."

They hustled out the building, rushed around to the corner, both slamming themselves against the wall as two Imperial troopers wearing masks rounded the opposite corner themselves.

Dib caught the first one with his rifle, rounds stitching up the trooper's armor and reaching his head. But the second troop was already discharging his weapon as he depressed the trigger, bolts drumming into Dib's armored chassis and knocking him off his feet.

Captain Smith stormed forward, unleashing a vicious salvo, drawing within a couple meters of the guy until the Irken went down, green blood spaying inside his singe lens mask.

With his chest sore from all the fire, the wind still knocked out of him, Dib pushed himself up on his elbows, blinked hard. Just as Captain Smith sank to his knees, then fell forward, his rifle clacking to the frozen pavement.

Wrenching off his mask, Dib shakily got to his feet and staggered forward, reaching the Captain. He rolled Smith onto his back, removed the mask. "Captain... Sir..."

Dib undid the quick release straps of Smith's armor, tossed the vest aside, saw the two plasma burns in the Captains neck, another just under his earlobe.

He checked the Captain for a carotid pulse, got one: weak and thready, but there.

"Band-Aid, this is Bali, over?"

The team's senior medical sergeant, Jac Saski, answered, his voice tense, gunfire echoing behind him. "Bali, I can barely hear you, over?"

"I need you here, south side of town hall. Berserker Six is down, over."

"What? I can't hear you."

"Berserker Six is down!" Dib repeated his location.

"Roger that! On my way!" Cried the medic.

Dib switched channels to call Warrant Officer Samson. "Black Bear, this is Bali, over."

"Bali, this is Black Bear, make it quick!"

"Berserker Six is hit. He's alive. I say again, Berserker Six was hit. Got Band-Aid on the way."

"Roger that, Bali. I'll notify Zodiac Six and coordinate with him. Looks like they're spreading out now, some heading for the neighborhoods. We need to take out as many as we can, right here, right now, before they all turn into snipers, over."

"Roger that, and they're using gas. Looks nonlethal, over."

"Yeah, what they call nonlethal just kills you slower. Tell you what. You stay put. I'll send over a truck."

"Roger that, standing by. Bali, out."

Dib checked Smith's neck again for a pulse, put his ear to the man's mouth, listening.

They wouldn't need Band-Aid now.

He swore, and dragged Smith's body to the side of the building.

The guy was a good Captain, not the usual token officer sent to do his time with a company, then go on to lead brigades. He'd really wanted to learn. And hell, he wasn't even thirty years old yet.

Band-Aid called on the radio to say he was almost there. Dib didn't stop him. They'd pair up, get down in the alley between the town hall and another office building, and remain there until Black Bear's truck arrived.

The sound of whomping rotors kept Dib tight to the wall. He looked up, saw an MH-53 Pave Low banking overhead at just two hundred feet, M134 7.62mm Minigun blazing wildly from the rear ramp. Just behind it came a Spittle Runner, narrowing the gap, its four barreled HPC returning fire until the bird's tail rotor was chewed apart by the duel plasma cannons, its engines beginning to smoke, fuel leaking from its tanks.

But then a glorious sight from the ground: a 163mm HEAT missile rose to cut across the blue midday sky, its exhaust plume trailing.

Before Dib could fully turn his head, the Runner burst apart, the fireball so close that Dib knew he had to get out of there. He shoved arms beneath Smith's armpits and dragged the Captain's body toward the back of the building to escape the secondary explosions.

Good thing he did. The debris was already crashing down along the wall, and just as the larger parts of the Runner's fuselage hit with echoing concussions and multiple booms, Band-Aid hustled up and dropped down to the captain.

The medic was a Japanese-American with a sparse beard who never seemed relaxed, always "on." He dropped his medical bag, about to get to work. "How long has he been unconscious?"

"He's dead."

"Aw, hell. I liked him."

"Just move up front, look for Black Bear's truck. They're coming for us."

"You got it, Sergeant."

Dib glanced once more to the fallen Captain. And once again, it was somebody else.

Cursed?

Lucky?

He didn't want to think about it anymore. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep.

And just for a second, he did just that.

There in the darkness of dark, damp alley in Seattle lay his old friend Arkady with a gaping burn on the right side of his head.

Arkady's eyes snapped open. "Dib, man, it's not so bad here. If you want, we could hang out."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you're just delaying the inevitable. Those guys from the Tenth probably won't get here in time. Maybe you'll weaken this Recon Force, but once their DMOVs come rolling down, you guys are all dead. Unless, of course, you run for it."

"We won't leave these people."

"I know. So I guess I'll be seeing you soon."

"Sergeant!"

Dib took a deep breath, heard the sound of an engine.

"Sergeant!?" Cried Band-Aid.

Dib snapped awake with a chill. He immediately hoisted the Captain in a fireman's carry, then rushed around the corner, toward the street, where a pickup truck was waiting.

(End chapter)


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty Four

Sergeant Ray Harper, Sergeant Reilly Scott and Dez rushed up to the idling Spittlerunner. Harper held up the grenade, as Dez suggested.

Meanwhile, Scott was on the other side of the craft, pointing his weapon at the co-pilot on the other side of the canopy. Both pilots looked to be in their late nineties and seemed more annoyed than scared. They raised their hands, and Harper motioned for the pilot to go to the back, open the bay door.

"You smell that?" Cried Dez. "That's fuel."

The pilot reached for the side door and inched it open, just as Harper seized it, glanced up, and aimed his SIG P220 pistol, screaming in Irken, "Don't move!" With a gun to his head, the pilot was most accommodating, and Harper climbed up into the Runner, took the pilot's sidearm from his holster, then motioned him back towards the cockpit.

"Something's wrong with this Runner," Hollered Dez. Harper ignored him for now. "Scott, get everybody else in here," He ordered his assistant. "Dez, come on up, get in the co-pilot's seat. But I don't think you're flying."

After ordering the co-pilot to turn over his sidearm, Harper moved back, allowing Dez into the cockpit. The co-pilot vacated his chair and slowly headed into the troop compartment, Dez's pistol trained on him until Scott got back inside and took over. Harper and Dez donned headsets, then Dez spoke quickly in Irken, his language skills even better than Harpers. In fact, the two spoke so quickly that Harper only picked up a word here and there.

"All right, he doesn't care, he'll fly us where we want to go so long as we don't shoot them, but it's no coincidence they were just sitting here."

"How bad?"

"He says they're having trouble with the gear. And there's an electrical problem along with a fuel leak somewhere. Remember, these Irkens have some high tech gear, but the old stuff they have is very old. This must be one of the earliest models of Spittlerunners."

"So we just got into a flying bomb?"

"Pretty much."

Harper lowered his voice, even though he didn't need to. "Don't tell the other guys."

Dez winked, "We're screwed."

"Less screwed than before. At least we got a ride now. How's the fuel?"

"They filled it up before leaving Behchoko, but we'll find out how bad this leak is."

Harper spoke slowly to the pilot, asking him more about the fuel problem.

The pilot threw up his hands, shrugged.

Bastard wasn't telling.

"It's about a two hour ride up to your pilot's last coordinates," Said Dez. "We might make it there, but if we don't refuel, this won't be our ride home."

"Just get is there. My CO's working on the rest."

Fritz, Gis, Tristan, and Szymanski piled into the bird, and Scott shut the door behind them. Then the Assistant Team Leader rushed up, slapped a hand on Harper's shoulder, and shouted in his ear over the engines, "Do we have to take to co-pilot?"

"No, you're right. Good call. Ditch him."

While Scott took care of that, Harper ordered the pilot to take off. The engines began to kick up as Scott shoved the co-pilot outside, then slammed shut the door.

After jogging a few yards away, the co-pilot whirled around and raised both his middle fingers.

"He's not happy!" Scott cried.

"He's lucky we didn't shoot him," Added Harper.

As the engine began to roar even louder, and the floor began to vibrate, Harper grabbed onto the back of the pilot's seat as the gear left the ground.

"This ship is a piece of crap!" Shouted Scott.

The pilot turned his head as far as he could to face the voice who called out, speaking English. "It's my piece of crap!"

While Dez ordered the pilot to bank away and head north, Harper wrestled with the idea they could use the Runner and its weaponry to assist the others on the ground. What a surprise that would be, seeing a Spittle Runner swoop down to take out Irken infantrymen on the ground, not Canadians and Americans. But they didn't have the fuel, might need the weapons later on, and there was always the chance that they could be accidentally taken out.

So there it was. Despite the pure, unadulterated frustration, they would stick to the plan.

Of course, those Marines weren't about to let him live down that decision. "Outlaw One, this is Black Bear, over!"

"Go ahead, Black Bear."

"Is that you in that Irken aircraft, over?"

"Roger that. Sorry we couldn't stick around for the cake, but I think your men got it under control, over."

"If this channel wasn't being recorded, you know what I'd be telling you right now, don't you?"

Harper knew. And he'd probably say the same thing. "Understood. Outlaw One, out."

"Don't let it bother you, Sergeant," Said Dez over the intercom. "Every player has his part."

"Yeah, but you know, you can't help but ask- what's more important? One pilot? Or helping secure an entire town?"

"That's not your question to answer."

"No, but it's still mine to ask."

* * *

The driver of the pickup truck had introduced himself as Lance Corporal Barry Hachey. He was one hundred and ninety pounds of digital-clad Canadian soldier, and he barreled down the street at sixty plus miles per hour, with Dib buckled into the passenger's seat, Band-Aid jammed into the backseat. Dib had contacted the other four guys he had posted downtown, and they were already en route to the airport in another truck.

Meanwhile, some of Captain Vargas's men were reconnoitering the roadblocks, while others attempted to fall back into the neighborhoods to see just where those imperial troopers had moved. Vargas had said he'd already lost four men, and that he still hadn't heard when the Tenth Mountain Division's first troops would arrive from Grande Prairie.

They drove in silence for a minute, then Barry suddenly blurted, "This is like something out of a movie. I mean, this stuff doesn't happen to folks like us."

"Well, it does now," Said Dib.

"I got a condo in Florida. What am I doing here?"

"Saving your town," Said Band-Aid.

"Speaking of which, I heard we destroyed all of their Voot Cruisers."

"I didn't hear that," Dib said.

"I also heard that a squad or two went off into the neighborhoods. They're using gas."

"What else did you hear?" Asked Band-Aid.

"They shot down our UH-1s and one of our Pave Lows."

Dib rubbed his eyes, and the tension in his shoulders began to loosen. "I saw one of our birds go down. But we also took out the Runner that was after it."

A crash and a muffled _thud _made him snap up.

Suddenly, the truck was drifting to the left, cutting into the wrong lane and now racing toward a building.

Dib glanced sidelong at Barry.

He'd been shot in the chest by a sniper, and blood splattered all over the cab. A gaping hole had opened in the windshield.

Band-Aid was screaming that the magnetic depleted uranium round launched by the sniper and his guass rifle, or coilgun had missed him by a few inches. Most of the rear window was gone. Before Dib could grab the wheel, the truck plowed through the glass door and adjoining wall of the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce, cinder blocks and glass tumbling down onto the hood, crashing though the windshield and onto Dib as he ducked, burying himself in the floorboard.

But the truck kept on moving, blasting through decks and counters until Dib reached up through the debris on his lap and threw the gear into park, then switched off the engine.

"Jac, you all right?"

The medic came up from behind the seat. "I'm good. I'm good."

Dib lifted pieces of cinder block from his lap, opened his door, and forced himself outside, coughing. Dust filled beams of light shone in from the shattered entrance. With his rifle at the ready, Dib moved shakily forward, along with Band-Aid.

"He's still out there, somewhere..."

"Only way to tell is to draw his fire," Said Band-Aid. "I'll run across the street."

"Hold up." Dib got on the radio to inform Black Bear what had happened.

"Too tied up now to send another truck, but I need you here! There's another squad out there in the trees. Our snipers got them pinned down, but for how long I don't know. We can't move till we take them out, I need you here, over."

"Roger that, on our way, out."

Band-Aid frowned "On our way?"

"Get back in the truck."

"Damn, I like your style." The medic rushed to the rear cab door, tugged it open, hopped inside.

Dib yanked the driver's door, reached in, and hauled Barry out of the seat. He dropped hard to the floor, and Dib had to turn away. Sure, he'd seen his share of blood and gore, but all that blood and brain matter, coupled with the guy's weight, was just too much.

Repressing the urge to gag, he hauled himself into the driver's seat and fired up the engine. Damned radiator was cracked and hissing. Ignoring it, he threw the shifter into reverse, floored it. Rubber burned as they shot back through the bank and exploded into the street, trailing dust and tumbling pieces of concrete.

Not a second later, another round punched through the side window; Dib ducked, threw it into drive, floored it again.

A third round struck as Dib kept low and steered blindly.

After two breaths, he popped up and cut the wheel hard left, turning down a street. "We're out of his bead now, I think."

Band-Aid did not answer.

Dib stole a look into the back seat, couldn't see the medic. "Band-Aid?"

Nothing.

Dib's heart skipped a beat. My God. He was a magnet for death.

"Hey Sarge, yeah, I'm good." The medic popped his head up and leaned back in the seat, one eye shaded by his monocle.

Dib sighed in heavy relief. "Damn it bro, you gave me a heart attack!"

"Sorry, I was checking the Cross-Com. You know, if you and I get in behind those squads near the terminal-"

"Yeah, I know. That's what Black Bear has in mind."

(End chapter)


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty Five

The Ice Saw's engine began to falter, and Lieutenant Colonel Gaz Membrane knew she'd be back on foot very soon.

"What do you think, Jake?" She asked aloud. "Still think I'll make it?"

She imagined Jake Montes in his cockpit, flying just off her wing, flashing her a big thumbs up.

"Well, I won't argue with that."

Gaz estimated she had covered between twenty to twenty four kilometers, and she now rode through tall pines; beyond the woods she could see a frozen river whose opposite shoreline lay a half a kilometer away.

With an unceremonious cough, the engine died. She tried to start the Ice Saw again. The tank was bone dry.

She opened the canopy, hopped out, checked the forest behind her, then unloaded the gear, jamming what she could into the pillowcase she'd taken from the farmhouse.

That poor family.

Gaz now wore the mother's clothes, which smelled like laundry detergent. She slung the survival kit over one shoulder. the pillowcase over the other, then started toward the river.

At this time of year the ice should be thick enough to support her, she thought. If she followed the river, her GPS said she'd reach another broad plain offering no cover, but more forest lay on the opposite shore. However, getting to that better cover meant crossing the river and placing herself in the wide open.

Her whole life had been a risk, and there were very few she hadn't taken, save for the one with Jake.

She paused at the very last tree before heading down onto the snowy bank. She took a long pull from her water bottle, stowed it, then thought, _I got this._

For a few moments, it was eerily quiet. Just the sounds of her breathing and snow crunching faintly beneath her boots. Then she heard it: a humming in the distance. Was that an engine?

* * *

"Outlaw One, this is Hammer of Tampa Five Bravo, over."

Sergeant Ray Harper, who was seated just behind the pilot's chair inside the Spittle Runner, had already been notified by radio operator Fritz that Major Katrina Parsons was calling, so he put on a headset and adopted his all business tone to answer, "Hammer, this is Outlaw One, go ahead, over."

"Outlaw One, I'm sending you updated GPS coordinates for your package. We picked up the survival beacon about ninety minutes ago, over."

"Outstanding. At least it's a rescue and not a recovery, over."

"Roger that. However, be advised that mechanized infantry forces are homing in on that location. Intel from one of our drones indicates two DMOVs, over."

"Roger that, Hammer. Coordinates just received. Stand by." Harper got on the intercom. "Dez, you looking at that GPS?"

"Yeah, I got it," He said, tapping a finger on his own unit's screen. "I think we're about twenty minutes away." He leaned forward and rapped a knuckle on a gauge. "But look at this fuel. She's leaked a lot, came down fast. We'll be riding on fumes."

"All right." Harper switched to the radio. "Hammer, this is Outlaw One. Note we're approximately thirty minutes out from the package, but we're nearly out of fuel. I put in a request for an exfiltration helo over an hour ago, but haven't heard anything from our CO. Can you follow up, and we'll send an updated GPS of our location at that time, over?"

"Roger that, Outlaw One. Understood. I'll check on that pick up and get back to you. Hammer, out."

The lights inside the chopper flickered. They'd been doing that sporadically for the past fifteen minutes, leaving Harper's men more restless.

Since the noise was so loud in the troop compartment, Harper got the team's attention by raising a fist, then traced a big 3 0 on the back of the pilot's seat, mouthing the words: thirty minutes. He gestured going down to snatch up the pilot.

Each man flashed a thumbs up, then each went back to checking his weapons and inspecting the rest of his gear.

"Hey, Sergeant," Called Dez. "These GPS coordinates... You know where she is right now?"

"Do I want to know?" He asked, his tone already darkening.

"She's crossing a frozen river."

"Why?"

"There's a huge wooded area on the other side. Only good cover around."

Harper swore through a deep sigh. "Well, that gives us two problems: if she's still on that river when we get there, then _we'll _be out in the open."

"But we'll be quick."

"And if she's not," Harper went on, "It'll be interesting trying to find her in the woods while you hand back with the Runner, which might run out of gas before we find her."

"These are things we think about but do not say," Said Dez. "Got some good news, though: I think we can intercept her before she reaches the treeline."

Just then, several blinking lights shone on the cockpit panel and the chopper began to lose power.

"What is it?" Harper asked.

"I'm not sure," Said Dez.

The pilot was speaking so fast his words became a blur, frantically flicking switches, he gave up and started pulling his antenna downwards, still panicking in his language, the ground racing up at a thousand feet, then nine hundred, eight hundred.

"He's talking about that electrical problem again," Said Dez. "But I'm not sure what he means. I don't know all the technical terms in translation."

The pilot kicked his foot up, hitting the bottom of the panel hard, and with a jolt, the power returned, and the engines roared to life, the fuselage shuddering a moment before they began to regain altitude. The Irken pilot laughing in triumph as he grasped the controls again.

Dez glanced back at Harper and beat a fist twice into his chest, as if to say: heart attack averted.

Harper nodded, then told the pilot in Irken that he'd buy him a lifetime supply of the finest snacks on Earth if he could keep them flying until they reached their destination.

The pilot rolled his eyes under the large clear visor over the top portion of his face and in broken English said, "I make this deal. But you will take me with you. I want to see America... Before the Empire takes over everything."

Harper exchanged a look with Dez, then said, "Well, my friend, you'll get your wish, but it'll be a cold day in hell before an Irken flag is flying over the White House."

"Or the Canadian Parliament," Added Dez.

The Irken pilot darkly laughed under his breath. "Humans, I think you should prepare for some cold days ahead."

* * *

Staff Sergeant Dib Membrane and Band-Aid took the truck along a dirt road running parallel to the wooded area opposite the airport terminal. While that section of forest was thick, it was only about a thousand yards wide, cut into a perfect rectangle when the airport had been constructed.

"All right, this is close enough," Said Dib, bringing the overheating truck to an abrupt stop.

They hustled out and skulled their way into the forest, threading between clusters of firs and pines, their limbs drooping with snow. Intermittent cracks of metallic clangs followed by a strange electric discharging sound boomed ahead.

At the next tree, Dib signaled for the medic to crouch down. "How many frags you got?"

"Three."

"I got two. Now listen very carefully."

Dib unfolded his plan, then studied the medics face. Was there any sign of fear? Would this guy lock up at the most dire moment? Damn, if only Dib had spent more time training with these guys. Well, the medic had made it this far and had even taken all those extra qualifications courses. Sometimes you had to let go and place your trust in the machine that produced Marines of the highest caliber.

"Sergeant, are you all right?"

Ironic. Maybe Dib was the one who couldn't be trusted.

"Sergeant?"

"Yeah, sorry, just going over it again in my head."

He called up Black Bear, let him know what was happening, and the assistant detachment commander said he and his men inside were ready.

Dib proffered his hand to Band-Aid. "Let's go get em'."

The medic shook vigorously. "Hooah." Then he trotted off, working to the north of the woods to place himself in a flanking position of the enemy.

Meanwhile, Dib kept low, shifting as gingerly and stealthily as he could straight toward the enemy position. He came within fifty yards of the Irkens, his breath shallow as he settled down beside a tree.

His binoculars told the story.

It was a full squad all right- at least ten troopers visible. One Irken shouldered a launcher, either a Bumblebee or the experimental APX-3X6, a new guided munitions launcher that built up energy from a weird liquid found on a different planet, it built the matter into an orb in between the two prongs to the front of the weapon, locked on, and when the weapons operator let it fire, there was no escaping. But they were probably saving that for a last resort. They would've blown up the terminal with an APX-3X6 already. They probably had mobile plasma mortars as well, definitely two HPCs set up on tri-pods, the usual assortment of PRV-225s, P-22s, and undying love for the Empire that had been brainwashed and essentially programmed into them during training. They hadn't wasted any gas. They were masked up, as was everyone inside the terminal. So it was what it was: a standoff.

But not for long.

"Band-Aid, I'm in position, over."

"Roger that, me too."

"All right. Wait for it."

Dib called back to Black Bear. The boys inside were ready. He switched his MR-C rifle to single fire mode, raised it, then stared through the scope.

The squad leader would be the guy doing the most talking through his headset.

After panning down the line, Dib found him. Three gold bars facing downward covered by a red Invader rank symbol. The Irken was wearing a special mask with better protection, made for officers, laying on his gut, balanced up on his elbows, reading images from a small tablet computer on the snow in front of him. He spoke quickly into his mic.

In truth, Military snipers rarely engaged targets closer than three hundred yards, but Dib's plan depended upon a perfect shot. So he'd come in much, much closer, and he would do everything possible to ensure that perfection. Yes, at this range he could probably just lift and fire, but he had a moment to be sure, so he took it. Dib couldn't use the laser target designation device on his assault helmet because the Irken would detect it. So Dib would need to compare the height of the target to its size using the mil dot reticle on his scope.

Time for math homework.

The average Irken had was six inches wide. The average Irken shoulders were twenty inches apart, and the average distance from a trooper's crotch to the top of his head was one meter. The height of the target (in yards) x1000, divided by the height of the target (in mils), gave the range in yards.

Bullet drop and gravity wouldn't be issues.

Consequently, the perfect shot was all about the simple range and dialing in the scope to set those crosshairs on target.

He made the calculations, the adjustment to the scope, and settled into his breathing pattern.

He considered himself a good shot, not a great one.

He could fight an ODA team better than most of them, but again, he was no record holder at the firing range.

His finger got heavy on the trigger, and it appeared the Invader rank squad leader was about to get up.

Dib held his breath.

And fired.

The shot caught the Irken in the back of his neck, just below his helmet, blowing that helmet off and taking a large piece of skull and mask with it. As the dead Irken hit the snow, the two troopers nearby spun in Dib's direction, like good little soldiers, exactly as they should. Dib switched his weapon to full automatic, bolted to his feet, shifted out from behind the tree, and hosed them down with his first salvo, dropping one before he dodged to the next tree.

A pair of explosions resounded.

That was Band-Aid, initiating his part of the plan. While their attention was drawn to the rear by Dib, Band-Aid was moving in from the left flank and lobbing his frag grenades.

And the Black Bear and the men inside joined the fiesta.

It was up to Dib now to make sure he got out of their line of fire. He sprinted off to the south, making a wide arc through the trees, plasma bolts tracing his steps, shaving off bark, whizzing by.

Dib ran on currents of electricity, viewed the world through high contrast, smelled every particle of plasma discharge. He suddenly turned, weaving through more trees, heading directly toward their right flank. He spotted two troopers, both trading fire with the guys in the terminal, who'd all in unison opened up with a barrage of rifle fire.

Dib put the MR-C's grenade launcher to work, thumbing one off to fall at the trooper's knees-

_Boom!_

The explosion tore them up, and they ragdolled it to the snow.

The remaining Imperial Troopers seemed unorganized now, with at least three more turning tail and running straight toward Band-Aid. Dib hit the ground, called up the medic.

Two seconds later, Band-Aid's rifle echoed.

"Black Bear, this is Bali, over."

"Go ahead, Bali."

"Hold fire. Move in. We got em' on the run!"

Black Bear keyed his mike, and Dib heard the war cries of the other as they charged forward, firing their rifles. "Roger that, Bali. Great job!"

Dib took a deep breath and smiled inwardly. It was about time something went right.

But the victory celebration lasted only a few seconds before Band-Aid's tense voice came over the radio: "I'm hit!"

(End chapter)


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty Six

Lieutenant Colonel Gaz Membrane's eyes had grown so heavy, her muscles so sore, that she staggered to a halt in the middle of the frozen river, leaned forward, and tanked down air.

_Ten seconds, _she told herself. _Just ten seconds._

The wind had picked up and had been blasting snow in her face. Her cheeks and nose were going numb. She shivered and pulled up the scarf, turned back, squinted at the shoreline she had left behind.

Through veils of snow she made out one Irken ND-II accompanied by two DMOV-3s rumbling on their tank like tracks down toward the river bank. Her little trek on the Ice Saw, but once she'd switched on the beacon, the Irkens had picked it up. Those Imperial Trooper squads probably been tasked with both finding her and performing a reconnaissance mission in the area.

Killing two birds with one stone, unfortunately.

Reflexes took over.

She turned, broke into a run.

The opposite shoreline was impossibly far away. Her legs went back to burning as she imagined a sniper somewhere behind her casually lining up to take his shot,

At least it would end quick.

What was she thinking? She wouldn't give up. Not yet. Not after coming this far. Not after three innocent people had already died!

Screw the pillowcase, the supplies. They dropped into her wake.

She would reach the forest by sheer force of will. They couldn't stop her.

Anticipating a discharge, she veered right, then left, still jogging, her boots nearly slipping on the ice beneath the powdery snow.

She glanced back.

The Irkens were still coming, frozen river now withstanding. The DMOV drivers were testing the ice, while dismounted troops started toward her, ND-II hanging back.

As the snow rose to her shins, her pace slowed, but she swore and kept weaving erratically, kicking forward now. Then suddenly, a crack made her flinch and gasp.

The handheld rail rifle projectile echoed off.

She didn't feel anything. Maybe he'd missed. Or maybe it'd take a second for the pain to come.

Plasma rifles being fired in full auto resounded-

But it was joined by the irregular humming of an engine.

The afternoon sun blinded her for a moment, but out of the glare came an object swooping toward her. For a split second her spirits lifted. They'd sent someone. She'd make it.

Then the object banked slightly, and she got a better look at the fuselage, the symbol, the terrible and familiar outline of a Spittle Runner. Now those engines seemed to pound on her head, made her want to scream.

"Oh yeah?" She cried aloud. "I don't think so."

She kept running on as the Runner came around once more, descending from behind.

As its shadow passed directly overhead, she extended her arm and fired, the rounds ricocheting off its hull.

They would land in front of her, cut her off from the forest.

She fired again, smelled fuel, and thought maybe she had scored a hit.

The Runner slowed to a hover, began to pivot, and Gaz wasn't sure what to do now.

Bank left? Right?

* * *

"She's firing at us!" Hollered Sergeant Reilly Scott.

Sergeant Ray Harper didn't need the young superstar to tell him that. But damn, Harper hadn't anticipated this part, where the pilot assumed they were Irkens about to capture her and decided to fire at their already malfunctioning Spittle Runner.

They were still hovering, and Harper ordered the pilot to land, but the Irken shook his head, his antenna waving. "How thick is the ice?"

"It's thick. Land!"

"I don't like this ice. Is just frozen water. I dislike water. We all dislike your filthy water."

"Dez, can you land this thing?"

"Okay, I put down," Said the pilot with disgust. "But if ice breaks, and we go under, your fault!" He leaned forward and spoke rapidly into his microphone.

"Damn it!" Dez jolted forward and switched off his unit.

Harper shoved his pistol into the back of the pilot's head. "Put this bird down!"

Then he called out to Scott, telling him to open the bay door and throw down one of his Velcro patches, the American flag. All their uniform patches and other black insignia could be removed via the Velcro, depending upon the mission and what the lawyers had to say about the operation in a particular nation. Sometimes you had to show the patches, sometimes not.

Scott slid open the door, and as they got even lower he tossed down the patch, then started closing the door, just as she fired again, the round pinging off the jam. Scott cursed and fell back onto the floor.

"Is he hit?" Asked Harper.

"I don't think so," Shouted Gis.

"Look, she's got it," Said Dez. "She sees us! She knows, here she comes!"

* * *

Gaz thought she was dreaming as she ran toward the Runner, its gear just setting down on the ice. She clutched the patch in her hand and broke into a full on sprint.

For a moment she doubted the patch, thought maybe the enemy was luring her into the craft, but that was thinking too hard. If there were Irkens on board, they would rather take her by force, not cunning. It would be a matter of ego.

This was her rescue.

The plasma discharge behind her had ceased. Those fools thought their comrades in the Runner had captured the "Human pilot." They had no idea that somehow, some way, Americans had taken control of an enemy Spittle Runner. She almost waved after picking up the patch but thought better of it. The troopers behind her would find that highly suspect.

With the engines now blowing waves of snow into her eyes and clearing a circle around the Runner, Gaz leaned over, ditched the survival kit, and made her last run for it, coming onto the engine swept ice. Just twenty yards now, and her gait grew shaky as her boots found little traction. It was all she could do to remain upright.

Boom, down she went. Took a hard fall. Right on her butt. The impact sent tremors of pain through her back.

_Get up!_

The Runner's side door opened, and a helmeted, human soldier was waving her on.

She rose.

Plasma bolts began slamming into the side of the Runner. Damn it. The Irkens had figured it out.

Okay, back on her feet now. A few bolts splashing here and there.

Ten yards. Five. That soldier was right there, his face obscured by a dark visor.

Abruptly, the Runner tipped slightly away from her, nose lifting up-

Then she saw what was happening. The ice below had cracked, and the Runner's gear was sinking into the water, chunks of ice already bobbing around it. But the cracks were on the backside of the Runner, so Gaz kept on running.

Just fifteen feet now. Ten. Five.

The soldiers mouth was working: _Come on!_

Gaz increased her stride.

The soldier leaned out as far as he could, extending his gloved hand.

What was that sound? _Oh, no..._ The ice began to splinter at her feet.

She took three more steps, heard a chorus of cracking sounds, then she began to slip and tried shifting to the right-

Only to find herself atop a small raft of ice that floated freely, her weight driving one side down. Instinctively, she reached out. Nothing to grab on to, no one to help. She began to fall.

_Oh, God, no..._

The water rushed up her legs, over her chest, and broke over her face, the sensation of a billion fingernails of ice poking every part of her body. Completely underwater now, the shock having robbed her entirely of breath, sh panicked and kicked frantically for the surface.

Only then did the extreme cold hit her.

In truth the water was probably not colder than what she'd experienced during water immersion tests during her training, but combined with the stress of the moment, the stress of the past night, it was liquid death.

Her head hit something hard. More ice. She pushed up, tried to find and opening.

Where was the surface?

She made a fist, punched the ice, looked around, punched again.

* * *

Scott had already yanked the quick straps on his boots, toed them off, and had zipped off his combat suit, leaving him with his black LWCWUS (lightweight cold weather undergarment set) and socks.

No way they would let that pilot drown.

Scott would die first.

Fritz had already found a nylon rescue rope, and Scott made a loop in it as the Runner began to rise from the river. The Irken pilot screaming over and over, "Water! Water!"

With the looped rope in one hand, he jumped out, dropping six feet toward the broken ice. Before he even felt the water, he screamed at it like an animal raging against nature.

_That's right boys, let em' have it!_

Scott sank deep, popped up, and cried out again as the chill seized him in its grasp. He told himself, _not so cold, not so cold,_ as he swam forward, didn't see her, dove under, widened his eyes-

And there she was, her hair almost glowing in the water, just off to his left, a few feet back and struggling to push through the ice, unable to see the opening nearby. He paddled to her, grabbed her waist, and pulled her back with him, kicking as hard as he could.

They burst up, both tanking down air, gasping, the engines whipping over them. "Grab on to my back!"

She wrapped one arm over his right shoulder, tucked the other arm beneath his left, and locked her hands. Smart girl. "I'm ready," She said through intense shivering.

There wasn't time to ascend the rope and climb back into the Runner- not with that incoming fire.

So Scott flashed a thumbs up, seized the loop with both hands, and braced himself.

* * *

From the open door, Harper gave the Irken pilot the go ahead, who was more than willing to pull his yoke back and take off as quick as he could, and the rope snapped taut. Scott and the woman were wrenched from the water and swung hard under the Runner.

"Go, go, go!" Harper cried over the intercom.

The Runner's nose pitched down, and they veered off, still drawing fire from the trooper's behind them. One of the DMOV-3s even fired an accelerated plasma bolt from its big gun but missed by a wide margin. The Irkens were at once desperate, embarrassed, and mighty pissed off.

"This is it," Said Dez. "We're on fumes now."

"Just get us to the other side of that forest and put us down there. We have to get them inside."

Harper wished they could turn back for just a moment and launch rockets, but not with Scott and the pilot dangling down below.

"Hang on, buddy, just hang on!" Shouted Tristan, even though the Sergeant below couldn't hear him. They all began shouting, and maybe it made them feel better, Harper wasn't sure, but he joined in and remembered the conversation he'd had with his young assistant: _"Just want you to know that I'm giving you a hundred and ten percent. Always, sir," _Scott had said.

_"We'll see how long it takes for you to create your own shadow. And hope it's a pretty long one."_

Yes, indeed Sergeant Reilly Scott had just cast a very long shadow. And Harper would make sure to commend him for that.

* * *

Scott's arms were frozen, his hands locked onto the rope. The pilot was tugging hard on his shoulders, and tears were beginning to form in his eyes from all the exertion.

"Don't... Let go..." She whispered in his ear.

She was half dead, but even then she sounded kind of sexy. Leave it to him to be thinking of sex at a time like this...

He closed his eyes.

_I am a Marine. This is my job. I will not fail._

But the feeling had escaped from his arms, and the rope began sliding through his fingers.

* * *

"He's losing it!" Shouted Harper. "Dez, how much longer!?"

"We're almost there!"

Harper began stripping off his combat suit so he could give it to the pilot, once they had her inside. The suit's life critical layer had a narrow network of tubing that would provide two hundred watts of heating A-SAP. Scott's suit waited for him.

Talk about being hung out to dry. Harper couldn't imagine how those two must be.

The Runner broke past another long stretch of trees, then the engine stuttered like a misfiring lawnmower.

"No choice now," Said Dez.

"Try to put them down easy," Harper said.

"Easy is not possible," Grunted the pilot. "Maybe you pray now. Because we go down hard!"

He wasn't kidding either. The Runner began to drop like a rock as it lost power.

Harper clung to the back of the pilot's seat, watched as Scott, who was one handing the rope now, looking up to the Runner, slammed into a snow bank.

"They're down!" He shouted. "But he's still holding the rope. He's not letting go! Cut it! Cut it!"

Gis immediately unsheathed his Blackhawk Tatang, a thirteen inch long serrated blade he lifted high in the air, then-

_Thump! _He cut nylon like butter, leaving a deep scar in the Runner's deck.

"They're clear!" Shouted Harper.

"Brace for impact!" Warned the pilot. "Three, two, one!"

(End chapter)


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty Seven

"He's been shot in the leg. Caught him just above the armor. Looks like it missed the artery, though. Get Beethoven over here A-SAP," Dib told Black Bear.

The Warrant Officer acknowledged, then Dib finished cutting open the medic's pant leg with the Mk. I the medic had given him. The Masters of Defense knife had a secondary blade at the butt that was specifically designed for cutting cord or clothes off an injured combatant.

As Dib worked, his attention was divided between treating the medic and checking the perimeter for any remaining Irken Imperial Troopers.

A couple gunshots sounded from somewhere south.

"That's our guys," Said Band-Aid.

"You have a good ear."

"I spoke with an Irken defector once," The medic nodded, then flinched in pain. "He said he'd rather die than pick up a fully loaded human weapon."

Dib laughed under his breath, and had the morphine injection ready. "Okay."

Band-Aid tensed, took the shot, then relaxed a little and said, "Thanks, Sergeant."

"Don't thank me yet, Jac. I'm no medic. I could still kill you."

"Please don't. I'll tell you what, though- you're some damned Marine."

"Nope. Just doing my job like everyone else."

"Your plan worked."

"Sometimes you get lucky."

"Like me." The knot of agony that had gripped the medic's face began to loosen. "Could be worse, right?"

"Right. Morphine kicking in?"

"Yeah. Feels good. Next time make it double."

Dib cracked a slight grin.

"Bali, this is Beethoven, over?" Called the team's assistant medic, Staff Sergeant Matt Clavil. "Coming right up on you, over."

"Come on, out."

The assistant medic arrived. He had a scruffy blonde beard and wore an expression of deep concern. He'd been given the call sign Beethoven by the Captain since he was, in fact, an accomplished pianist.

Dib gave Beethoven an update of what he's done so far.

Band-Aid thrust out his hand. "Thanks, Dib."

"Any time, brother." He turned to Beethoven. "I'll get the portable litter ready. We'll get him back to the terminal."

A voice sounded in Dib's earpiece. "Bali, this is Black Bear. Just got a report from Zodiac Six. We have at least a battalion size force coming down from Begchoko. ETA on their first elements is four hours, six for the rest of the battalion. We need to get to that roadblock, see how much damage has been done. Zodiac wants to take a few men into the neighborhoods to recon their sniper positions. I want you to lead the roadblock team, over."

"Roger that. Any word from the Tenth?"

"They have sorties in the air, some already on the ground. Air support is en route, too, but no one's committing to an exact ETA yet. I've pressed them hard. I'm sure that battalion coming down has stepped up their plans."

"Roger that. We're bringing up Band-Aid to the terminal, then I'll organize the team. Send down some guys to get Captain Smith's body out of my truck. See you in a few, out."

"Hey, Sergeant, you know they're all talking about you," Said Beethoven as he helped Dib get Band-Aid onto the litter they had just unrolled.

"Who's talking?"

"The rest of them, that's who."

Dib's tone turned defensive. "They all talking shit about the new Team Sergeant, eh? Heard about what happened to me in Seattle?"

"They're all saying you might be the best Marine they've ever seen."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not kidding."

Dib gave a little snort. "You guy's haven't been around much."

"All I know is, I'm sticking close because you don't die. Put me on your roadblock team."

"My luck will run out. Either way, I always draw a lot of fire."

Beethoven grinned. "Sign me up."

"We'll see."

* * *

The Spittle Runner slammed into the ground so hard that the booms supporting the landing gear snapped off. The Runner slid forward, then came to a sudden halt, driving Sergeant Ray Harper hard against his seat's straps as a wave of snow crashed down over the canopy.

"Tristan? Gis? Go get them!" Ordered Harper, bolting from his seat and opening the door. "Fritz? Szymanski? Security outside!" Harper crossed toward the cockpit. "Dez, how are we doing?"

"I think we survived," Mused the Irken pilot, studying the gauges. "Still have battery power. Good news: the fuel leak has been fixed."

"Yeah, since the tank is dry. You're a comedian."

Harper looked around and slammed a hand on the pilot's shoulder. "Well, green bean, you might get to see America after all."

"My name is Captain Prizz. Address me as such."

"All right, Captain, you can get up now, get to the back, and we'll fit you with a nice little pair of zipper cuffs."

"No need. I won't resist. Have I?"

"Just follow orders. You can take orders from a lowly Sergeant like me, can't you?"

The pilot frowned. "Just leave me here."

"Nah. You're coming. Everybody loves a defector."

"As one soldier to another, do the honor and shoot me."

"Aw, Captain, don't be so dramatic. The conditions in our prisons are way better than your barracks. You're going on a vacation. Did you bring your bathing suit?"

* * *

It didn't matter the Runner had practically crash landed and Lieutenant Colonel Gaz felt certain that it wouldn't be taking off anytime soon. It was all about getting out of the wind, getting out of the wet clothes, and getting warm.

The big Marine with olive skin, who had introduced himself as Sergeant Gis, carried her on his back to the Runner. The other guy named Tristan carried the Marine who had rescued her. His name, she had learned, was Sergeant Scott, and his face was blue. If it was any indication of what she herself looked like, maybe frostbite had already set in.

They frantically pulled off her clothes, and for once she could care less about being naked. But they were gentlemen about it, ignoring her body and just helping her get into the long johns and then into the combat suit.

Oh, God, the heating system was unbelievable. She sat there on a rear seat, legs pulled into her chest, riding wave after wave of heat.

"I'm hoping you're Lieutenant Colonel Gaz Membrane," Said a steery eyed man with a touch of grey at the sideburns.

"Good guess."

"I'm Staff Sergeant Ray Harper, United States Marine Corps." He offered his hand.

She took it. "Thanks for..." She broke off.

"Well, yeah, I know, it's not much of a rescue. And we'll need to get moving pretty soon. I know you've been out there a while. We can set up a litter, turn it into a little sled, and drag you if we need to."

"I'll be all right. Moving is good. Thanks for the combat suit. But what're you going to do once we're out there? Sun's up, but it's damned cold with that wind."

"Guess I'll have to cuddle with the Irken."

"Don't make me laugh. It hurts."

"Sorry, Colonel. Can I ask you something personnel?"

"Uh, okay?"

"Are you a relative or friends with Becerra?"

She drew her head back in surprise. "I've never met him."

"Funny, because this TRAP mission came down from him. The President of the United States ordered my team to rescue you. Any idea why?"

She frowned. "You think I'm carrying secret intel that could end this war tomorrow?"

"Who knows?"

"Sergeant, I'm just a pilot who was training at the wrong time, in the wrong place. The President contacted me directly while I was up there. He wanted a SITREP. I don't know. Maybe he thought I was worth saving."

"Damn..."

"What, not a good enough reason?"

The Sergeant shrugged. "I was just hoping for something... I don't know."

"Something more important than my life?"

"I didn't say that."

"It's okay Sergeant. I'm just a pilot."

"You must be one hell of a pilot."

Her brows lifted. "That I am."

He nodded and regarded his men. "All right, people. We'll assume those mechanized troops are still coming for us, on foot or otherwise. Let's get ready to move!"

"Sergeant?" Called Gaz. He glanced back to her. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome. And if you need anything-"

"Just get me home."

He winked. "Count on it."

* * *

It was near midnight on planet Earth in her underground base of operations, when Major General Tak was wrenched from her meeting with her field officers by a video call from Tallest Red and Purple.

The leaders appeared disheveled and incensed. Red rubbed his eyes and spoke first, "General, we have Sneg on the line."

"Does she know what I'm trying to do here?"

"Obviously, she does."

"What does she want?"

"She wouldn't say. She wanted to speak with all three of us together. I hope, for your sake, General, that everything is going as planned."

"I'm sure it is."

Purple turned his body and began tapping on a terminal off screen. "All right, I'm putting her through."

The screen divided into two images: Red and Purple on the left and Colonel Jul, that light skinned, turquoise eyed Irken, on the right.

Jul was wearing a black invader uniform, three gold bars above a downward facing chevron with a red Invader rank symbol was plastered on the right side of her chest, she stood near a tree in a wooded area draped in snow. Her breath steamed in the cold air. "Hello, my Tallests, General."

"Hello, Sneg." Said Tak. "I hope you've called with good news."

"Yes. There is no way we will lose this war."

"Very well, then. Stand by, and we will contact you with the confirmation code-"

"Uh, no, General. When I said _we, _I wasn't talking about you." She shifted, to the left, allowing a human male dressed in green cowl to appear: Green Vox. "I was talking about the Green Brigade Transnational."

"Hello, purveyors of death," Said Green Vox.

Tak threw up her hands. "Colonel, what now?"

"There is a suitcase in Edmonton, another one in Calgary. Ten kilotons in each. As planned. But now we control both of them. And again, when I say _we, _I mean us- not you."

"Thanks for the confirmation." Purple shallowly mumbled under his breath.

Red spoke though gritted teeth. "Colonel, this human scum is merely a subcontractor, nothing more. I'm unsure of what you're trying to say."

"I'm saying, dear Leaders, dear General, that our plan has changed."

Tak leaned forward into the camera and widened her eyes on Jul.

Colonel Jul was, in her opinion, one of the most brilliant and trusted IMID officers in the history of the organization. When the security leak involving Zim had been exposed and the Europeans alerted the Americans, it'd been she who had gone underground by staging her own death with their help.

She erased herself from the organization- all in the name of restoring the Empire to greatness.

And now she was saying it was a lie?

They were going to use the threat of tactical nuclear weapons to bluff the Americans and Europeans into giving them Alberta, should the conventional ground war fail.

"What are you talking about, Colonel?" Asked Red, his voice more tense with agitation.

"I'm saying this oil has become the root of all evil. I'm saying that Irk and our people can no longer survive if this struggle continues. I'm saying we are going to detonate both of those nuclear devices. And there's nothing you can do to stop us."

Purple noticed how Green Vox reached over and clutched Jul's hand.

Red sighed deeply. "All right, Colonel. You've sacrificed a lot. You want monies. I understand. Let us go back to work, we'll schedule and begin negotiations tomorrow."

"There will be no negotiations."

"Excuse me?" Asked Purple.

"Within forty eight hours, the reserves in Alberta will be contaminated, the cities of Edmonton and Calgary uninhabitable. We will ensure that the Irken Empire is held responsible for this by fully revealing your plan. And forget using this call as evidence. I've taken care of that was well as the deactivation of my chip and PAK uplink. You can't kill me."

"Colonel, have you gone insane?" Asked Tak.

"No, General. I have never seen things more clearly."

"Enough games," Said Red. "We will call you in the morning, and you will name your price."

"No price. Only a clock for you to watch... And time for you to think about what you are doing to this world, our own world, and the entire universe."

Tak dug her long fingers into her palms. "What are you waiting for then?" She threw up her hands again. "Detonate the nukes!"

Jul took a deep breath and sighed. "We will wait until as many civilians as possible can escape. Then, with all of those Military units in the area, we will achieve maximum effect against the Empire."

"Name your price!" Cried Purple, shaking the screen, his distressed face bobbing back and forth in the image.

Jul took a step toward the camera, opened her slightly chapped lips. She suddenly grinned, glanced away, then looked up. She said very slowly, "No... Price..."

"So you're going to do it," Said Tak. "You're human scum now."

"No. You have no idea who I am, and why I do what I do. No idea. Good bye."

Tak sat there a moment, stunned. Red and Purple were equally speechless.

"I could not have anticipated this," Tak finally said.

Red spoke first as Purple was mumbling something to himself, clearly he was panicking. "Nor I. But what do we do now? We can't destroy these reserves."

"No, we can't."

"We'll send in two teams to find those weapons, pull out all our forces."

Purple shook his head, turned toward Red. "No, if we pull out, and the weapons are detonated, there will be no denying we are responsible."

Tak thought a moment. "We could lie and say we were tipped off, but that would still mean we are in bed with the enemy. Also, our nuclear search teams would never make it in time- especially if they have to penetrate American defenses. I'm at a loss. There is no one in the IMID I trusted more than her. No one. This is... Unbelievable."

Red bolted up from his chair, walked away from the camera as Purple watched him, then cursed and said, "Do you know what I'm going to do now General? I'm going to do something that will shock you."

"At this moment that will be difficult."

"Oh, _this _will bring you to your feet."

(End chapter)


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter Twenty Eight

The Irkens had cleared a path through the roadblock of demolition derby cars that Dib along with the help of local hunters and soldiers had constructed across Highway 35. Enemy rockets had reduced more than half of the vehicles to heaps of blackened and burning wreckage, though the hulks themselves could still be pushed back into place.

It would take at least an hour or two for Dib's team to reinforce the obstacle. Thankfully, the team's little surprise for the Irkens mechanized infantry had remained intact. Sadly, the eight Canadian soldiers who had been defending the area had been killed; Dib put two of his men in charge of picking up their bodies, which would be taken back to the airport.

The atmosphere was at once tense and grim.

Band-Aid had been stabilized and moved into the terminal, where one of the medics from Zodiac team had established a makeshift infirmary. Consequently, assistant medic Beethoven was cut loose and able to come along with Dib. He and the medic drove a civilian car nearly three kilometers north along the highway. They pulled over into a ditch and hopped out to survey the plains in the distance. Twice Dib had tried to use the Cross Comm to pull up imagery from drones flying over the area, but the Irkens had another Ripper rigged with jamming gear, back to blocking their frequencies.

They both lay in the embankment with binoculars pressed to their eyes. Dib asked, "Got anything?"

"Thought I saw a reflection. Gone now."

"You all right?"

"Sergeant, I can barely keep my eyes open."

"Me too."

"Can I ask you something? What if the Tenth doesn't show up? What if they got new orders?"

"New orders? I don't think so. They'll be here."

"And if they don't come, the Irkens will roll in and pounce on us."

"I like your positive attitude."

"I'm a realist. There's no way we can hold this town alone. No way."

Dib closed his eyes a moment. The guy was right. They could delay the battalion, but hold them off entirely?

"Hey, Sergeant?" Called Beethoven. "Wait a minute. I think I've got something."

Dib snapped open his eyes, squinted through his binoculars.

* * *

President Becerra wasn't sure how to feel about the request conference call with Tallest Red and Purple, along with Major General Tak. The Irkens had thus far been ignoring all such requests from the CIA and the Euros, and now _they _wanted to talk? Would it be a final threat? Would they demand surrender and want to talk terms? Would they suggest something even more ridiculous?

Becerra's first impulse had been to ignore them. Let them stew a while. But within an hour after the Irken's request, he had asked Mark Hellenberg to get General Kenedy on the line and contact Irk. Three windows opened on Becerra's screen. Both Red and Purple with odd expressions. Tak appeared so disgusted that she could barely look at her camera, let alone look up. General Kenedy was, of course, his impeccably groomed self and the consummate professional, ready for battle.

"Leaders of the Irken Empire, General," Becerra began, acknowledging each Irken with a curt nod. "I'll first say I'm shocked by your request to talk."

"We are shocked, too," Said Tak. It was obvious she had been forced into the call.

"Mr. President, we have a matter to discuss that is of grave importance," Said Red.

"Yes we do. Get your forces out of Canada. Otherwise, I promise, you won't recover from this one. Not this one."

Tak began to smile.

"You find this amusing, General?" Becerra widened his eyes, about to raise his voice.

"Mr. President, we will do as you ask," Said Purple.

"Excuse me?" Becerra nearly fell out of his chair. He glanced across the cabin at Chief of Staff Hellenberg, who shrugged in confusion.

Purple went on: "We said, we will comply. However, we must first work together to address another problem."

"Work together?" Now it was Becerra's turn to smile. "If you'd like to do that, then first you'll cease all Military operations around the globe. Your desire to expand the Irken Empire ends today."

"Shut up, Becerra!" Cried Tak, her face all up in her camera, shaking it as she yelled: "You have no idea was is at stake here!"

Purple fired off a sharp retort in Irken, silencing Tak. He took a moment to catch his breath, to compose himself. Then he said, "Mr. President, we've learned that the Green Brigade Transnational has planted two nuclear weapons in Canada, one in Edmonton, the other in Calgary. The exact locations are unknown. These are suitcase bombs, ten kiloton. We are certain they are there. The terrorists are trying to blackmail the Irken Empire and, of course, destroy the reserves."

Becerra folded his arms over his chest. "Prove it."

Red raised his inner finger like a weapon as he curled the other over his gauntlet. "You can do one of two things. You can doubt us, ignore us, and in less than two days you will have your proof because the Brigades will detonate the weapons. Or you can trust us and send in two of your NEST teams, one in each city, to find and deactivate the nuclear devices. Your teams can get there before ours can."

The Nuclear Emergency Support Teams that Red had mentioned were nuclear physicists and scientists working in the nation's weapons labs. They were heavily equipped and highly trained at sniffing out bombs.

"Why hasn't the Brigade contacted us directly?" Asked Becerra.

"As I said, they're trying to blackmail the Irken Empire and blame us for the destruction. They believe we are the instigators of this war... Well, I guess we kind of are. Anyway, they will detonate the nukes in less than two days. They're waiting for more civilians to be evacuated and more Military forces to move into the cities. If we attempt to pull out our forces, we assume they will detonate the nukes. Mr. President, the loss of those reserves would be catastrophic to your economy _and _the universe's. So this time, we must work together to stop them."

Becerra's thoughts were flooded with what if's "Red, Purple, if you don't mind, I'd like to have a word in private with General Kenedy."

"By all means." They said in unison.

Becerra switched to private channel. "General, I'm at a loss here. Are they playing us?"

The General's gaze went distant. "Hard to say. Our NEST teams could verify the presence of nukes, that's for sure. It doesn't sound like Irken nature to utilize nuclear weapons, we can't trust the Irkens, but it wouldn't hurt to send in those teams."

"If they're lying to us, then what would they gain by this? Do they need our teams for some other purpose?"

"I don't know. But if they're being honest, and those nukes go off-"

"That's what bothers me," Becerra interupted. "The nukes go off and the reserves are lost. What happens? The price of Irken oil and gas skyrockets."

"Exactly. So it's odd they come to us with this story. You think they'd let the reserves along with the rest of the planet be destroyed."

"But that's short term. Long term, they'd have much more to gain if they controlled them."

"Definitely."

Becerra thought a moment. "I'm just shooting from the hip here, but here's what I think. The Irkens are still in bed with the Brigade. They used them to plant the nukes and intended to bluff us. They figure if their ground war fails, they can threaten nuclear destruction."

"But their deal with the terrorists went south."

"And that's the real shock to them. They must have had some people on the inside working with the Brigade, IMID officers they fully trusted, maybe this agent with the codename 'The Empress.'"

"Now they need us to bail them out," Kenedy concluded. "And if the nukes_ were_ to go off, then you're right, the price of Irken oil and gas skyrocket- but the Irkens are also trying to court the Vaxins and the Dias's, who've been buying more and more oil from the Canadians."

"So in the long term, if the nukes go off and the world believes the Irken Empire is at fault, then this means both an economic blow to their government, and nations around the world will want to dispatch as many Battle Cruisers and Assault Ships as possible and take out Irk in one swift attack."

"Exactly. Alienating future allies and taking the blame for nuclear destruction could finish them. We could turn those seized planets, and they know that- which is why they've come to us."

"My God, General, I hope we're right." Becerra switched back to conference channel. Tak playing with a yo-yo like toy, bored. While Purple sipped on his drink through a straw. "Irken leaders, General, it seems you have everything you've campaigned for to lose, and we risk only a couple of search teams. Those teams will be marked with locator beacons, and you'll need to communicate with your forces so that our teams are not engaged."

"We will do that." Said Purple, who quickly went back to his drink.

"But it will be difficult," Added Tak. "Both of our forces are using electronic countermeasures and jamming. We will try, but there will be no promises."

"Well, General, I hope for your sake your people don't kill them. Now, it's my understanding that we'll need to continue ground operations so the terrorists don't prematurely detonate the nukes. But you will _not_ send in anymore forces. The transports you have in the air? Turn them around. Do I make myself clear?"

"We will agree to that," Said Red, moving over to a command and communications terminal off screen.

"Finally, if by some small miracle we're able to pull this off, I would expect you would withdraw all troops from Canada. Completely. And then, once the Canadians have assessed their damages, we will discuss reparations."

"Becerra, let's not get ahead of ourselves," Said Red as he popped his head back on screen.

"Oh, we won't. We'll also discuss reparations for every nation involved in the construction and operation of the International Space Station."

"Perhaps we should have kept to ourselves," Said Tak. "You humans are all the same- always with your hand out. The universe does not owe you anything."

"In this particular case, General, you owe us something: the truth. And if you're lying now, the hand coming at you will not be empty- if you understand my meaning."

Tak snickered. "I understand."

Purple gingerly set his drink down on the terminal board in front of him before speaking. "President Becerra, protecting those Canadian reserves is in the interests of both of our governments. Let us focus on that and not use the situation at hand as a bargaining tool to address other conflicts and desires."

"We're going to put everything on the table here. But you're right. We can't do anything until we're sure those nukes have been deactivated. General Kenedy? I'd like you to coordinate with General Tak."

Kenedy nodded, though the awkwardness in his expression was clear.

"Leaders, General, we will be in touch with further details." Becerra broke the link with them and returned to the private channel with General Kenedy. "Let's get those NEST teams called up and in the air."

"Yes, sir. But, sir, have we just climbed into bed with the Irkens?"

"They say to keep your enemies close. Can't say I like sleeping with them, though. Let's get to work."

(End chapter)


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty Nine

Sergeant Ray Harper had his Marines, along with Dez, the Irken pilot, Captain Prizz, and their rescued pilot Lieutenant Colonel Gaz Membrane, had been hiking away from the Spittle Runner for about four hours, following the woods south, taking short breaks roughly every forty five minutes.

The snow was knee deep in a few spots, and it was slow going to be sure. Gaz had warmed up and refused to be pulled in the litter, though Harper could tell she wouldn't last much longer. The Irken wasn't faring much better, only in a simple dark violet jumpsuit surrounded in a black pilots harness and helmet.

Harper called the next halt, and they gathered below a stand of white spruce, hidden by the dense evergreen branches, while Gis and Tristan took off ahead to reconnoiter and report back. Szymanski was keeping an eye to the rear, which thus far had been clear of pursuing ground forces.

Gaz' survival kit had been left behind, but the Irkens began dogging them from the air, with the occasional Voot Cruiser passing over the forest, driving all of them into the snow for cover. Harper had been forced to break radio silence to get an update on his pickup, and they learned they had at least two more hours to wait until their bird arrived. They could shave off some of that time by continuing to head south.

Harper was qualified to guide in the chopper, but so was Dez, so when their taxi arrived, the Canadian had volunteered for those honors.

As they sat there, huffing beneath the trees, Harper offered up the last few pieces of his chocolate coated energy bar to anyone willing.

Gaz took a piece and said, "You look like you're freezing. You want the suit?"

He shook his head. "I've been accused of being cold blooded, so it all works out."

"I will take your suit," Said Prizz, wincing over his zipper cuffs.

"She's not offering," Snapped Harper.

"That's right," Gaz growled.

"Okay, okay. It was just thought that you should go clockwise when handing things around." Prizz scootched over to lean against the tree.

Harper turned back to her. "So, is this rescue everything you dreamed it would be?"

Prizz was heard making a sound of disgust as he mumbled something.

She glanced away. "They killed everyone at my base. Killed my wingman, killed this poor family who was trying to help me. Damn, Sergeant. If you didn't pick me up, I would be dead by now. Don't sell yourself too short."

"Thanks. I just, uh, I'm not thrilled by the prospect of two more hours of hiking."

"Me neither. And can I ask? Why are we dragging this guy along?" She flicked a dark glance in Prizz's direction. "Why didn't we just leave him back at the Runner? Or just shoot him and be done with it?"

Prizz turned to face Gaz. "Exactly, Thank you!" He exclaimed, turning to Harper next. "Indeed, human, why did you not just listen and shoot Prizz? Hm?"

"A POW's a bonus in my book. And he's an officer. Not sure my boys will ever get a crack at capturing an officer again."

Prizz smiled, almost as if to say: Someone thinks I'm special.

Gaz grinned crookedly. "I'm sorry I interfered in your little professional development project."

Her sarcasm stung. "Hey, relax. We'll get you out of here." Harper leaned forward to brush snow from his boot.

A discharge rang out, punched into the tree trunk at his shoulder.

He threw himself forward and cried, "Get down!"

* * *

They were finally rolling into downtown Calgary, Ninth Avenue Southwest, and Staff Sergeant Dax Rarik signaled his rifle squad seated inside the Stryker to make their final gear checks. Navy SEALs already in the city had asked that at least one Stryker platoon enter Calgary Tower, a tall column of concrete supporting a huge, conical shaped observations deck. The tower was the city's most identifiable landmark, and it had been seized by several squads of Storm Elites accompanied by Invader rank soldiers who were using it as an observation post.

After all, the tower was famous for offering the best views of Calgary, and those Irkens knew it'd only be a matter of time before someone entered to flush them out. And with no way to escape, they also knew they would be fighting to the death.

As Rarik sat there, waiting for the platoon to pull up outside the tower, he nervously flexed his gloved fingers. It had been an exhaustively long ride. With some shuffling after the bombs had gone off during their trip up 95, his platoon was now spread among three Strykers, down a squad, and certainly a little , no more bombs had gone off after the initial ones, and their road march had had proceeded without incident.

Thorough searches of every vehicle had turned up nothing. Most of the officers were convinced that the bombs in question had been cleverly disguised as Stryker parts and Carlton was on the intercom, discussing two civilian choppers that for some reason had been allowed to circle overhead, when Carlton suddenly broke off and said, "All right, Sergeant. We're here. Get ready!"

The Stryker rumbled to a halt, the ramp lowered, and Rarik and his men charged outside, onto the street, then up onto the sidewalk-

Where they were suddenly accosted by their Company Commander, Captain Joshua Harris, who was joined by a ground team of five civilians, two women, three men, all middle aged and being fitted into body armor by two vehicle gunners from the Master Sergeant's platoon. They each carried a heavy backpack.

"Sergeant Rarik, these folks have just put down and it's your job to get them up and into that tower."

"Yes, sir." Rarik's confused expression was hard to conceal. "But sir, they know we're coming. Power's been cut. No elevators. Got like eight hundred stairs to climb. They'll probably gas us, drop grenades, and-"

"You need to get them up top. Period. Do you read me, Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir."

"We're putting snipers in the building next door, see if we can take some of them out from there, lob some flash bangs and gas inside the deck. We're going for a surgical removal here with minimal damage to the tower itself. Let me repeat: minimal damage. They've made that clear."

Rarik pursed his lips, gestured the Captain away from the civilians. "Sir, what's going on?"

The Captain sighed. "I got orders to get these folks up top and not destroy this beautiful landmark. I don't know any more than you right now. Off the record? take a look at these people. Geeks with backpacks, heading up into a tower heavily defended by Irkens. Think they might be looking for something?"

Rarik was no rocket scientist, but it didn't take him more than a few seconds to blurt out the word: "Nukes?"

Captain Harris gave him an ominous look. "They were circling overhead for thirty minutes before they put down. And they got carte blanche wherever they go. I asked for ID. They said they don't have to show us anything. There was a CIA XO here to vouche for them."

"Damn."

"Good news is I'm issuing all of you MOPP 4 gear and Cross-Coms, with access to a pair of small recon drones we'll fly up each stairwell. They'll walk point as you go up."

"Nice."

"Get your men over there, get on those masks and protective suits, and finish gearing up."

"Yes, sir."

Captain Harris thrust out his hand. "Good luck, Sergeant."

Rarik shook hands, then his gaze swept up the tower, toward the top, reaching the impossibly high observation deck. He stood there for a few seconds more, forgetting how to breathe.

Everything about this said: get those people up there, but you are expandable.

Rarik had never felt more uncertain about an operation. But he couldn't show that. "All right, Spartan team! Here's what's happening..."

* * *

"Stay behind me!" Shouted Harper.

"No, I see one right there," Cried Gaz. She knew that the next time that Imperial Trooper behind the tree rolled out, she'd have him. And she wasn't going to let Mr. Macho Marine rob her of a little payback.

"Colonel, get your ass back here! We didn't come this far to lose you now!"

The Irken appeared, raised his a Type-6 OE/CW, commonly refereed as to "The Sun's Ray," as the weapon harvested energy from the sun to fire an orange, transparent energy round, leaving nothing of you but a pile of ashes. Gaz fired first, two shots, striking the Irken in the left cheek, he fell to the ground and fired blindly, incinerating two of his brothers. She ran- Right back behind Harper's position.

"Jesus, lady!" He cried.

"I ain't no lady," She shouted back. "Not today!" She dropped down at his side and said, "Two squads. I saw a few of them shifting to our flank."

"I know," The Sergeant said. Next to Harper sat Prizz, who'd been gagged since he'd been screaming to the other Irkens after they'd fired their first shot.

The rest of the Marines were out there, somewhere behind them, engaging more of the Irkens. They must have been spotted by one of the Voot Cruiser crews, who'd set down and dropped their troopers.

"Any chance of our ride coming a little early?" She asked him.

"Yeah, right. Hold on." He got on his radio, began talking to the others. Outlaw this guy, Outlaw that guy. All Gaz wanted was to bail. Now. She'd drawn her blood, she was ready to go home now.

If it wasn't too late.

When he finished on the radio, he glanced sidelong at her and said, "We need to make a break for it. Ready?"

She nodded.

"Let's go!"

* * *

Major Klar stood in the hatch of his DMOV-3K RYS, the recon version of the infantry fighting vehicle, equipped with an over charged, nitrogen cooled, tripple barrel heavy plasma cannon, replacing the 100mm REP gun and came equipped with a radar. His was the lead DMOV of the entire battalion. And much to the chagrin of all the other officers, he'd insisted on riding at the tip of the spear.

The other officers were afraid of him, aware of his contacts on Irk, aware of his temper.

Of his rumored defective insanity.

He chuckled aloud as he glanced toward the sun lowering on the horizon. He took in some meager warmth, lifted his digital binoculars once again. The town of High Level stood just a kilometer away, with a pathetic road block strewn across the highway.

Ignoring the communications silence he had just given, he got on the radio and cried, "Great soldiers of the Empire, this is Major Klar. Tonight we expand our Empire! Tonight we make Canada bow down to our Military might!"

He thrust a fist in the air, glanced back at the vehicle commander in the DMOV behind him, who returned the fist.

Good man. If he hadn't, Klar might've shot him.

His smile grew even broader.

Someone would write this historical moment into the data banks underground on Irk. And Klar would lean over that someone, making sure his name was spelled correctly. K L A R. In Irken symbols.

"All right," He said into the vehicle intercom, "When we draw close to the obstacle, we will shift to the embankment and let the engineers begin breaching operations."

"But, sir?" Said the driver. "I thought you wanted us to blast on through. I thought you wanted the glory."

"Yes, but as I look at the obstacle now, I see a trap, not glory. The engineers will go first."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you think me a coward?"

"No, sir. And my mate back home on Vaxis thanks you for this."

"I'm sure she does. Now pull over."

Klar waved on the DMOVs carrying the engineers, those great heroes and saints who would roll out a carpet stained with blood.

(End chapter)


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter Thirty

Staff Sergeant Dib Membrane had left six of the Canadian Infantrymen in charge of the roadblock team, and they had done a remarkably fine job organizing and positioning the men. Once the Irken engineer vehicles pulled up in front of the obstacles and got out to inspect the area, they received some immediate 5.56mm, full automatic Canadian hospitality.

From the piles of snow lining the embankment there suddenly emerged more than two hundred local boys, armed with shotguns, .22s, and grenades given to them by Dib's team. These rural boys had about as much heart and attitude as any men on Earth.

This was their land. Their country.

The ones before these invading Irkens had fought in Canada in 2014, and now their descendants would be taught the same lesson- that sheer numbers and technological superiority will not triumph over a foe trying to protect his home.

Never underestimate sheer force of will and the heart and courage to win.

Dib stared through his binoculars from his position about a half kilometer west atop the roof of a small gas station, watching as the Canadians brought down fifty Irkens, killing many of them at point blank range. It was like medieval carnage out there.

Grenades dropped into open hatches.

12 Gauge Buckshot rounds blasted into green faces.

And Dib could almost hear "O Canada," the national anthem, playing in his ears as several DMOVs lit up, smoke and flames pouring from their hatches. But then some of the other Irken vehicles behind the engineering teams made their move. The drivers floored it, rolling hard and fast to plow through long piles of cars. As they approached, their newer rail systems replacing the old plasma shells flashed and boomed, sending 100mm HE-MEW (high explosive, magnetic energy weapon) rounds that the roadblock. Pieces of flaming derby car debris sailed into the sky, taking flight like NASCAR racers forced into the wall and tumbling wildly.

The DMOV gunners opened up with their HPCs, chewing into those patriotic and ferocious hunters and soldiers alike, the drivers continuing on at top speed- doing exactly what Dib expected they would when faced with the ambush.

And they were in for an even bigger surprise.

"You seeing this!?" Beethoven asked him. "I think they got six, seven DMOVs! Those boys are hardcore!"

Just as he completed his sentence, another DMOV slammed into the barricade, a Canadian soldier manning the barricade ceased the opportunity, his boots landing on the front of the armored vehicle with a clang. He ripped a grenade from his body armor and pulled the pin, the gunner swinging the HPC around, the man kicked up and landed his boot on the Irkens face, he dropped the M67 and jumped from the vehicle as it erupted inside.

"Make that eight!"

"They're doing a hell of a job, but it's a one way ticket. They knew it. You could see it in their eyes when we left. But that's what they wanted." Dib got on the radio, told his pair of snipers posted on the rooftops nearby to lend a hand.

The cracks of thunder commenced. And for some of the Irkens, God was a bullet.

Hallelujah.

Dib checked in with Black Bear, who had taken the other half of Berserker team to the neighborhoods to join Zodiac team in flushing out the remaining snipers- no small task- and they most certainly needed more time, which was being bought by Dib and his group of hell majority of the local force had been given to Dib to delay the oncoming battalion, though a handful of residents were scattered throughout the town and remained within their homes, all at the ready.

It was, of course, imperative that Dib's team remain alive so they could be the eyes and ears of the Tenth Mountain Division as their first elements arrived. Soon. He hoped.

"All right, here we go," Said Dib, resuming his surveillance. "Suicide run."

The first DMOVs had blown a pretty deep hole in the obstacle, with only about ten cars left in their way. Two drove up side by side and began ramming the pile. Impatience was a beautiful thing, and the Irkens behind exhibited that perfectly. They made the obvious choice of taking the paths of least resistance on either side of the road, unwilling to wait for the first two vehicles to open the lane. Those frustrated drivers assumed the snow couldn't be very deep, that their tracked vehicles would make it across that terrain and they could return to the road behind the stretch of cars.

Why blow through all those vehicles when you can go around them?

If the Irken engineers had survived, they would have cautioned those drivers not to veer around the enemy obstacle. But the engineers were dead. And the recon troops inside those lead DMOVs would join them for shots of liquor in the afterlife. Two DMOVs broke off from the convoy, one heading left around the pile of cars, the other heading right.

"Just like you said, Dib," Muttered Beethoven. "Just like you said."

Dib tensed.

And almost in unison explosions lifted beneath both vehicles, destroying the forward wheels and tracks and stopping them as the clouds of fire obscured the area. All right, the secret was out: both sides of the obstacle were mined. But this was no ordinary minefield.

The next two DMOVs trundled up, started to swing wider around their burning counterparts, wider and wider, believing they could arc so far around that they could avoid the field. Those Irken drivers didn't realize that the mines were communicating with each other and literally moving into alternate positions to repair the first two breaches and keep the enemy within the killzone, no matter how far they drifted off.

Each mine was capable of two sided mobility and able to maneuver up to ten meters with each drive. They were all being carefully monitored by one of the Weapons Sergeants on Dib's team, who sat in the back of a pickup truck parked below, reading data on the computer tablet. If the enemy managed to jam signals between each mine, the system would enter autonomous response mode and maintain minefield integrity for several more hours.

Either way, the Irkens had stumbled upon a convoy's worst nightmare: a self healing minefield that could only be breached by a continuous number of suicide runs and the unloading of a significant cache of ordnance.

ODA-888 and their crew of Canadians could never wipe out an entire Irken battalion. Not this gentle few. But they sure as hell would delay them a lot.

"Now we've really stirred up the hornet's nest," Said Beethoven.

"Yeah, that's the scary part." Dib keyed his mic. "This is Bali, everybody get ready to move."

A series of explosions rose on both sides of the obstacle, as all of the DMOVs that had moved in began rolling backward, away from the field to fire their main guns into the ground. Showers of rock, snow, and dirt shipped into clouds that began to blanket the entire area, the rounds themselves bursting into brilliant balls of electricity and blue flames that flashed like lightning within the clouds.

Dib sniffed and crinkled his nose over all that ordnance going off, a smell that reminded him of Seattle.

There were fifty mines on either side of the cars, and it would take those Irkens a while to detonate them all, so long as the mines kept shifted to repair breaches.

Meanwhile, the entire battalion would come to a halt. While they most likely prepared to engage in conventional minefield breaching operations by using mine plows and MICLICs (mine clearing line charges) attached to long ropes and fired over the minefield to create a breaching lane, these measures were ineffective against the team's high tech surprise.

The Irken officers riding out there had to be mighty upset. Dib smiled as he imagined them growing flushed and cursing at their subordinates.

"All right, this it it. Time to fall back to our secondary position," He told his men. "Move out!"

* * *

"Your NEST team in Edmonton has narrowed their search to the legislature building," Said General Amadou de Bonkolé. "But my Enforcers Corps Commanders tell me that another Irken battalion is heading up from Red Deer- and they will roll directly into the downtown area."

"I understand, General," Said Becerra. "And let me emphasize that we truly appreciate all of the assistance the European Federation has provided us in Edmonton."

"You can thank us, Mr. President. But it's not enough. My troops dropped in light, with the exception of three or four Juggernaut Light Anti Armor Units. They've engaged Irken troops in the city, but at least a company sized force still remains in and around that legislature building. My troops are facing heavy sniper fire. Our first attempt to secure that building has already failed. Furthermore, if that battalion from Red Deer reaches the downtown area, my troops on the ground- and your NEST team- won't have a chance. They need more time, and I don't have enough assets in place."

"General, you may not like me, but I've admired you. I read one of your articles on Hannibal Barca, and I'm well aware of your reputation as a strategist. You're not telling me you can't do it, are you?"

He snorted. "Of course not."

"Then what is it you have in mind?"

* * *

Sergeant Ray Harper was muttering a string of epithets as he and Lieutenant Colonel Gaz Membrane charged through the forest, working directly between Scott and Gis, who were laying down fire to cover them. He wasn't swearing over the fact that the Irkens had landed and had ambushed them. He just couldn't believe that he'd forgotten about Prizz. Now they'd lost their prized POW, who was probably running off to rejoin his brothers and sisters.

They hit the snow and dropped down behind Scott and Gis, and then- to Harpers utter astonishment- the Irken pilot came stumbling toward them, still gagged and cuffed.

"Captain? What the hell!?" Cried Harper over all the gunfire.

"He wants to come," Said Gaz.

Harper untied the Irkens gag and cut the cuffs. Prizz coughed then asked, "Why are you sitting? We must escape."

"Are you kidding me?" Asked Gaz.

Prizz shook his head. "I changed my mind." He faced Harper. "I want vacation, like you said."

Harper smiled and rubbed the top of the pilot's helmet like a puppy. "Me, too." Even though the Irken was ninety years old, that equaled to about twenty years or so in a humans life.

Fritz came running up behind them, hit the snow. "Contact from the helo. They're five minutes out now. I can already hear them."

"All right, get back there. You guys cover Dez while he guides the bird. We'll hold them here. Prizz? You go with him."

"Of course, Sergeant. Oh yeah! I forgot," The Irken flashed him and Gaz a bright smile. "Thank you."

As they ran off, Gaz turned to Harper. "You've got a new friend."

"And it's not you," He snapped. "Next time, you listen to me. If you die, you'll really piss me off."

"So it's all about you."

"Look, don't give me that. Just stay close. We're going to fall back another fifty yards. Ready?"

She nodded.

"Break!"

* * *

Major Katrina Parsons was studying the maps of Calgary as she listened to the Marine Company Commander on the ground just north of the city to issue his update. The Stryker Brigade Team from Fort Lewis was in the city, and evacuation operations were well under way, along with the systematic targeting of at least ten Irken strongholds. Power had already been restored in several areas except for downtown.

That was the good news.

The Irkens kept their word and aborted all sorties currently under way into Canada, while their ground forces continued operations to put on a show for the Green Brigade.

Parsons was now faced with a serious request from the Commander: a call for a kinetic strike on the Irken mechanized force heading south down Highway 2 from Red Deer.

Within thirty minutes that force would reach the Country Hill Boulevard overpass, then roll right toward the downtown area. The SEALs and Marines already had their hands full as did the Stryker Brigade. She told him to stand by and took the request up to General Kenedy, who in turn wanted to discuss the matter with the President.

Within a minute, Parsons once more found herself speaking directly with Becerra.

"Hello again, Major. The General has briefed me, and I have to say I've already turned down a similar request from General Bankolé. The collateral damage is just too severe."

"I know, sir, but our people on the ground tell me they can't stop the Irkens. Engineers could bring down the road to buy some time, but the Irkens will breach fairly quickly. Our air assets won't reach the battalion in time. The Irkens will already be rolling into Calgary, and if you're worried about collateral damage, well..."

"Where are those Irken forces now?"

Parsons went over to the touch screen map table, tapped the appropriate commands, then sent the map's images to the president as she brought up real time streaming video from one of their drones. The long column of vehicles lumbered steadily south, rail systems held high like chins in defiance. In a window next to the video, the computer created a sophisticated graphic showing the convoy's simulated path and probable attack plan, dotted lines flashing red.

"As you can see, sir, they're rolling down Highway 2 right now, but the surrounding terrain is mostly slight hills and extremely rural along this eighty seven mile stretch. Now is the time to strike, when collateral damage will be at a minimum."

"General Kenedy?" Called Becerra.

Parsons shifted to her station, where the screen had split between the General and the president. "Sir, I concur with the Major," Said Kenedy. "We should take out those ground elements before they near the overpass."

"Very well. General, tell those Platform Commanders to stand by for my order to launch."

"Yes, sir."

The President regarded Parsons with a polite nod. "Excellent work, Major."

"Thank you, sir."

"And Major, I'd like to speak with you after the strike. I have new information that I'd like you to share with Chieftain Major General Zim."

"You do?"

"Yes, and I'm curious to see his reaction."

"All right, then."

He nodded, and the screen abruptly switched to the call log report.

Parsons leaned back in her chair, wondering what the new information was. Deep down it excited her, and she hated herself for that.

Because the excitement wasn't professional.

She would get a chance to see him again.

(End chapter)


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter Thrity One

After destroying the Irken task force, Commander John Andreas had taken the _Olympia _to the Dolphin and Union Strait, where he and his crew had continued to patrol silently and swiftly, listening with all their electronic ears for ships coming through the choke point.

They poked their nose up every two hours to receive a text message from COMPACFLT- And their most recent one sent Andreas' pulse bounding. He had even taken the risk to call back the Admiral. The conversation had been interesting- to say the least.

They now had orders to return to Coronation Gulf. "Are you going to tell me, sir, or leave me hanging in suspense?" Asked the XO as he stood in Andreas' quarters.

"Have a look." Andreas was seated at his desk, where on his computer he had pulled up some photos and schematics of High Level Bridge in Edmonton- not to be confused with the small town of High Level much farther north of that city.

The bridge spanned the North Saskatchewan River and was located next to the Legislative Assembly of Alberta. In the summer months, a waterfall created by artist Peter Lewis dropped one hundred and fifty feet off the side of the bridge, casting a mist and rainbows across the waves. It was a beautiful piece of architecture and a significant landmark in Edmonton.

"High Level Bridge," Said the XO with recognition. "I've actually driven over that."

"Yes, and it seems a large Irken ground force is looking for the same experience."

"Oh no."

"Oh yes. And you know what they want us to do."

"They can't be serious. What about collateral damage, aren't they worried about-"

"The Euros asked for a kinetic strike."

"That would take out the surrounding buildings- including the legislature. Couldn't engineers just rig the bridge?"

"I'm told that was the original plan, but then they realized they couldn't get it done in time."

"I see."

"So we're going to deny the enemy that avenue of approach, but we'll need to do it like surgeons. If we're successful, Enforcers Corps troops on the ground will continue the delaying operation. I get the impression from the Admiral that something even bigger is going down there and that it's imperative we do our part."

"Well, he can count on us, sir."

"My words exactly. So we're under way for the Gulf. And XO, the second we're in our firing position, I am to let our Tomahawks fly and destroy that target."

The XO nodded. "The crew will happily oblige, sir."

* * *

Late in the first Irken-Human conflict on Earth, the Irkens built a massive ship construction facility on Mars. In 2015, _Ish'brod_, a Project 995 Bludgeon Class fleet leader, same as 'The Massive' was launched to reinforce large fleets and act as a mobile command rather than having The Massive itself destroyed trying to perform such tasks.

Five years later, Captain Second Rank Kolo Mik'hini was given command of the entire ship. Kolo was fifty nine, never had a mate to call his own, and known by his colleagues as a pensive loner. He was a graduate of the Tikoo Naval Acadamy and the Padkis Nuclear Ship Training center.

His first assignment was a communications officer on a diesel-electric Stinger class. Next he was an engineering officer aboard the last remaining Alpha Nuclear Attack Ship. He later served four years as XO onboard The Massive itself. Despite eighteen years on ships, Kolo was still the youngest officer to be given command of the _Ish'brod_, and he was now on the mission of a lifetime.

Just two days previously, the _Ish'brod_ had slipped her holding bay at Sevmash Shipyard (constructed on Mars), transited into Earths atmosphere, and disappeared somewhere near the north pole. Kolo knew that CIA and NASA satellites had photographed _Ish'brod_'s empty berth and that her movement had triggered a worldwide alert.

Now they were about to pass though the Dolphin and Union Strait, bound for the Coronation Gulf, utilizing their shaftless propulsors called RDT- rim driven thrusters. The super quiet, electric-nuclear powered _Ish'brod_ did not require noisy main reduction gears to convert high speed main turbine output into low speed turbine rotation, and Kolo was certain that he and his crew of 12,000 of the greatest, the brightest crew members in the Empire would pass unnoticed into the gulf, carrying their full complement of sixty R-82 Bulva ballistic missiles.

Kolo reached into his breast pocket and removed the picture of Irti. He stared at it a moment, then rubbed the back for good luck, a ritual he had performed countless times. His older brother Irti Mik'hini, twelve years his senior, had died back in the first war. Kolo and Irti were created the "old fashioned," way, not grown in tubes, hence the surnames.

Irti had been working on the clean up of the 70 MWe and 90 MWe pressurized training reactors on Devastis, and had suffered radiation poisoning while constructing the two story sarcophagus that now encased the two reactors. Officials and administrators had been grossly negligent, and Kolo had lost his brother because of them. Irti's death was a devastating blow to the family, one from which his parents had never recovered. They had gone to their own graves grieving his loss.

Kolo returned the photo to his pocket and regarded his executive officer.

"It won't be long now, sir," Said the younger Irken. "Today will be a great day for the Empire."

Kolo averted his gaze. "Yes, brother. It will be."

* * *

Sergeant Dax Rarik and his team moved up the Calgary tower stairwell, climbing farther into the uncertain darkness. The high ranking Invaders, possibly the highest rank within that category, gassed the entire stairwell but to no avail. Rarik and his squad were masked up and determined. Another squad was coming up behind his, with two more in the other stairwell. The staircase seemed to go on forever, the team's lights shining up until they seemed to run out, beams clogged with the still lingering gas.

Every man and women on Rarik's squad was now equipped with a concave shaped Ferrofluid shield behind which they could duck in the event of a grenade being tossed into the stairwell. The shields also protected them from incoming rifle and rocket fire, though a significant explosion's concussion would send them tumbling back down the stairs. If the blast didn't kill them, the fall might.

Real time video from the drone showed two heavily armed, high ranking Irken Invaders posted on the landing outside the main door to the observation deck. Both were staring down into the stairwell with digital binoculars pressed to their masks. They were darkly clad aliens, armored and deadly. A third Irken, high ranking Special Operations Commando appeared and reached into a satchel attached to his left thigh.

"Grenade!" One of Rarik's men cried over the radio.

Rarik already had an image from his point man's helmet camera. The plasma grenade had been dropped at an angle intended for their landing, but it flew wide, and plummeted toward the very bottom-

Two seconds later it exploded in a ball of blue plasma, the staircase and railings reverberating.

"Sparta Team, they still can't get a decent angle on us. Let's pick up the pace!" Rarik cried.

However, everyone in his rifle squad was already breathless, including himself.

And they were only halfway up the tower.

"Incoming, shields up!" Yelled Rarik's point man.

Dozens of bolts began splashing and burning the areas around them, and Rarik crouched down behind his shield, feeling the vibration of several impacts as the shield's liquid outer layer grew hard, absorbed the blow, and returned to its fluid state. The Irkens were simply delaying them now, and Rarik wouldn't stand for that.

"Sparta Team, I don't care about that fire! Move out!"

Not two heartbeats after Rarik gave the order, the entire tower began to shake, as though from some massive earthquake.

"Sergeant!" Cried one of Rarik's team leaders. "What the hell is that!?"

* * *

Major Katrina Parsons was riveted on her monitors. She had just watched the kinetic energy weapon Platform Commanders line up their shot. Then the missile and fin-equipped tungsten rod had streaked away from the cylindrical platform, its engine glowing as it reached a speed of nearly 36,000 feet per second- about as fast as a meteor until retro rocket kicked in to prevent it from burning up. The rod was nearly twenty feet long, one foot in diameter, and its heat shielded nose cone had grown cherry red as it had vanished into the atmosphere.

The rod had all the destructive effects of an Earth penetrating nuclear weapon without all of the radioactive fallout. It relied upon kinetic energy to destroy everything in its path.

Parsons had views from several cameras on the ground when the rod slammed into Highway 2, directly in the middle of that long convoy of Irken vehicles. And now a swelling sphere of destruction spread from the impact site, the ground heaving up in great torrents, as though a billion subterranean explosions were going off in succession, chutes of fire and smoke lifting hundreds of feet into the air. The killzone continued to spread rapidly, vehicles instantly pulverized by the unstoppable force.

She could only imagine what it must feel like on the ground, Commanders popping out of their hatches, only to look up as the sky turned black. A breath later, they were incinerated, torn apart or buried under tons of dirt. Parsons wasn't sure what the quake would measure on the Richter scale, but the entire province would feel some kind of effect.

It was hypnotizing to watch, even though she'd seen kinetic strikes before. Every one was a little different, all awe inspiring and even a little sad. No one on the ground had even a remote chance of survival.

* * *

The ride home was nothing fancy: just a good old HH-60G Pave Hawk, which in truth was a highly modified Black Hawk whose primary mission was to conduct combat search and rescue operations in hostile environments. Well, Sergeant Ray Harper mused, his current situation fit quite nicely into the air crew's mission perimeters.

Dez had assisted the two pilots, one flight engineer, and one gunner into putting down in a clearing about five hundred yards south of their position; at the moment, Harper, Gaz, and Prizz were charging toward the waiting bird, now less than a hundred yards away. Scott and Gis ran past them to provide a final few salvos of covering fire, and Harper forced Gaz and Prizz to run ahead of him, placing himself between them and incoming fire.

He'd read it a hundred times in the biographies of other Marines, had experienced it himself, and now, at this very moment, he knew it would hit him. When you were seconds away from safety, those last few seconds were the hardest.

You saw yourself getting shot at the last moment.

Saw yourself dying just as you were about to be saved.

Many combatants said they were never more scared than in the moment they were about to be picked up.

Harper's group cleared the forest, and Gaz along with Prizz made a last mad dash for the waiting chopper, rotor whomping, engine thrumming, snow blowing hard. The gunner was at the read near the open bay door, pivoting his M2HB, hungry for kills.

Gaz pulled ahead of Prizz, then she suddenly slipped and hit the ground. The Irken stopped, without his handcuffs, he brought her to her feet. As soon as she was vertical, he yelled as he hoisted her in a fireman's carry, "I've got you!" He bolted, two times faster than he was before with her on his back now, closing the twenty yard leg fast, and he placed her in the chopper with the help of the flight engineer.

"Outlaw team, this is Outlaw One. Everybody fall back to the pickup sight. Package is loaded. Say again, fall back now." Harper turned and dropped onto his gut. Between him and the chopper's gunner, they had good coverage from the treeline.

Tristan and Szymanski came bursting from the forest first, then came Fritz and Gis. Dez was already onboard the chopper.

"Outlaw Two, this is Outlaw One," Harper called. "Everybody's loaded up. Come on, buddy, let's go."

But there was no response from Sergeant Scott.

Harper tried again.

Then he cursed, rose, and charged back toward the treeline.

(End chapter)


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter Thirty Two

Sergeant Ray Harper spotted his assistant team leader lying prone beside a tree, his head low.

He wasn't moving.

But suddenly Harper's attention was torn away to the trees, where several Imperial Troopers were darting from trunk to trunk- moving in. Plasma discharge immediately sounded, and Harper crouched and charged fro Scott's position.

He took a flying leap and crashed into the snow just as Scott's rifle boomed.

"Sergeant?"

Scott regarded him. "They're moving up!"

"I ordered everyone to fall back."

"I didn't hear that." The Sergeant banged on his headset fitted below his helmet.

"Let's go!"

Scott fished out a grenade, pulled the pin, hurled it at the oncoming troopers, then burst to his feet. He and Harper charged back through the forest, leaving behind an onslaught of fresh fire from the Irkens.

The grenade exploded with a satisfying boom, just as the two rounded a pair of trees and spotted the chopper ahead, eclipsed by the last few pines.

Something splashed on Harper's helmet, then a few more splashes heated his back. Aw, hell, he was taking fire. Then a pair of sharp stings woke in his legs. He took three more steps, the pain growing unbearable.

He collapsed to his belly as Scott kept on running.

* * *

What they thought had been an earthquake turned out to be a successful kinetic strike on the Irkens coming down from Red Deer, and Rarik used the good news to boost the morale of his men in the stairwell. And God knew they needed a boost. They had about two hundred more steps to climb, and if Sergeant Dax Rarik's legs were any indication as to how the other felt, then they could all hardly stand.

But they forged on, with the Irkens up top sending down bursts of bolts and the occasional grenade. They also continued lobbing smoke to obscure the entire stairwell. If they had rockets, they were waiting until Rarik's men got closer to use them at up they went, stair after stair, in the smoke filled darkness, only the sounds of the radio and their own breathing now filled their ears.

The Company Commander informed them that snipers in the building across the street were attempting to pick off any troopers they spotted on the observation deck, but thus far those Irkens had kept out of sight. And twice Rarik had attempted to gain information from one of the five civilians ascending just behind them, a bearded, middle aged man with the call sign "Poin-dexter One."

"You just get us there, Sergeant and we'll do the rest," The man had said.

"I can help you more if I know what your job is."

"I think you'll figure out pretty quickly once we get up top."

"Well, I have my ideas."

"I'm sure they're not too far off base. Now, if you don't mind?"

Rarik almost wished this were the simple destruction of a Invader observation post. Then again, what kind of bragging rights would that earn him?

"Grenades!" Shouted his point man. "Two, three more!"

They all dropped down behind their shield as the sound of charging was heard followed by multiple explosions-

And then, as the smoke cleared, Rarik's men reported that a four meter section of the staircase had been melted away and that they would need the ropes to ascend to the next landing.

Delays, delays, more delays. That's what the Irkens wanted. The teams in the other stairwell weren't faring much better, according to reports.

"All right, people, let's rig this up and get climbing!"

* * *

As Scott ran toward the Pave Hawk, he couldn't understand why Gis and Szymanski were waving their hands and pointing. He tried his radio, but it was dead: either the battery was gone or he'd damaged it out it only took another pair of seconds for him to realize that they were indicating to the trees behind him. He stole a look back and saw Harper lying in the snow.

He turned around, raced toward the Sergeant, even as the chopper's door gunner opened up on the trees to give him some covering fire. Harper pushed up to his hands and knees, trying to stand, as Scott opened up with his own rifle, hosing down a pair of troopers who burst from behind a trunk to confront him.

But two bolts struck Scott's armored chest, knocking him backward. He lost his footing fell on his rump. He got up, started once more toward the Sergeant, the single barrel, .50 caliber machine gun still churning behind him, ripping up bark and limbs ahead.

It dawned on Scott that the Sergeant wouldn't be lying there, shot up, if it weren't for him and his damned busted radio. So he poured every ounce of energy he had left into his legs. He reached the Sergeant, dropped, returned more fire as bolts stitched lines into the snow just a meter parallel to them.

"Scott, you idiot," Gasped Harper.

"I know," He said. "Ready?" He rolled the Sergeant over and hoisted him over his back, legs buckling under the man's considerable weight.

He walked three steps and collapsed.

Meanwhile, Szymanski, Tristan and Gis had hopped out of the chopper, dropped, and were providing more covering fire.

"You're going to kill me if they don't," Said Harper. "Drag me!"

"Thought a carry would be faster." Scott stood, came behind Harper, grabbed his pack's straps and began sliding him over the snow. A sudden _thud _on his chest sent Scott back to the snow, his hands snapping off the pack. He groaned in pain.

"Scott?"

"Yeah." He gasped. "Got my armor. Damn. I'm going to be sore tomorrow."

He returned to dragging the Sergeant, whose legs were leaving a blood trail in the snow, "Hey, Scott, I didn't tell you this before, but you cast a _big _shadow, Marine. A_ big _shadow."

"You're just saying that so I can drag your shot up ass out of here."

"That, too."

Even as Scott continued hauling the Sergeant forward, Harper lifted his rifle and fired several bursts.

After a few more tugs, Scott suddenly felt the Sergeant grow lighter as Prizz joined him, the Irken Captain looking down to Harper, "Sergeant, you cannot die. You are ticket to vacation after all!"

Within a handful of seconds they had Harper into the bay, where Gis immediately cut off the Sergeant's pants leg and got to work. Scott shoved himself into the back of the Pave Hawk as the chopper roared up and away, laving the Irkens on the ground firing wildly at them as they cleared the trees, their muzzles now winking in the half light of dusk.

"How is he?" Scott shouted to Gis.

The medic gave him a look:_ Not now. I'm busy._

Harper gestured for Scott to come close so he could shout in his ear. "You did good. I give you a B plus."

Scott rolled his eyes. "Thanks!"

* * *

"Make your heading one five zero," Ordered Commander John Andreas.

"Make my heading one five zero, aye," Repeated the Officer of the Deck.

It was all business on the _Olympia_'s bridge, through Andreas noted a hint of excitement in the OOD's tone. They were in launch position in the Coronation Gulf and about to punch their Tomahawk land attack missiles out of their vertical launch system tubes.

As the Tomahawk cleared its tube, the first stage would ignite, lifting the missile to three thousand feet from it's launch altitude. At its apex, the first stage would jettison and the missile would plummet into free fall, spinning the missile's jet engine on the way down. The increasing flight speed would turn the compressor and build up pressure and heat in the combustion chamber. Fuel would be injected, and the missile's engine would then be up and running.

Andreas could see it all in his head.

Now it was time to make it happen. He gave the firing order, and the entire ship rumbled.

Once the first missile left the ship, Andreas lifted his voice and said, "Watch your trim, Officer of the Deck."

The _Olympia _had to adjust her balance and trim to compensate for the sudden loss of weight after each missile left the ship. The remaining five Tomahawks. space ten seconds apart, would follow the first down a bearing of one seven eight degrees while cruising at subsonic speed roughly five hundred feet above the ground.

The one hour, forty nine minute, thousand mile flight included a pre-programmed midpoint correction as each Tomahawk passed over Wild Buffalo National Park. Packed into each missile's computer memory were final destination landmarks: pictures of the Alberta Legislative Assembly building, the exact interchange point were 97th Avenue NW, 109th street NW, and 110th street NW converged and provided sole access to High Level Bridge.

On board TV cameras would accurately identify the final orienting landmarks as each missile plummeted toward the Saskatchewan River and the High Level Bridge below. After the last missile blasted away, Andreas congratulated the crew, then gave the order to head back to Dolphin and Union Strait to continue their patrol, even as they monitored the missile's progress.

Just one hour into that journey, the sternplanesman cried, "Jam dive, sternplanes!"

The sternplanes were horizontal rudders, or diving and rising planes, extending from each side of the ship near the stern. They had lost hydraulic pressure and had slammed into dive position, where they would remain locked until hydraulic pressure could be restored and control reasserted.

With miles and miles of steam, electrical, and hydraulic lines running up, down, and though bulkheads, it was just a question of time before something broke, got damaged, wore out, or operator error occurred. Now the _Olympia_ was headed straight for the ground, coming up and threatening to destroy her and her entire crew.

"Full reverse thrusters!" Yelled the OOD and Andreas in unison.

The bow planesman jerked his joystick to full rise, trying to counteract the effect of the sternplanes.

"Passing one thousand meters, thirty one degrees facing down," Reported the chief of the watch, his hands hovering over the controls to blow the forward stabalizers.

The sternplanesman immediately switched to auxiliary hydraulics and pulled back on the sternplanes.

Nothing.

"Passing nine hundred meters, forty degrees facing down, sir!" Cried the chief of the watch.

The sternplanesman switched to emergency hydraulics and pulled up, when suddenly the sonar operator lifted his voice: "Missile in the air, incoming bearing three two zero! WLY-1 classification- a Bulva- range thirty thousand yards, speed two hundred knots!"

* * *

Sergeant Dib Membrane and his men shifted farther back into the town to their secondary positions along the rooftops of some local businesses on 97th street, parallel to the highway. For the past hour the Irkens had been pounding the hell out of the obstacle, and Dib figured they'd destroy the remaining mines within thirty minutes, maybe less. Once that happened, Berserker and Zodiac teams could make a last stand or withdraw and live to fight another day.

Because if they didn't withdraw, they would eventually exhaust all ammo and be overrun. Dib felt sure those Irken forces would not take them prisoner. In fact, Irken political officers ordered public execution of all captured human forces to keep controlled civilian populations fully intimidated and in line. Moreover, if watching a group of Military men forced to their knees and shot in the head wasn't bad enough, they'd shoot a few civilians, as well as threaten the use of biological and chemical weapons.

"Black bear, this is Bali, over."

"Go ahead, Bali."

He gave the Assistant Detachment Commander a SITREP regarding the obstacle, then added, "What's the status of the Tenth, over?"

But before Dib could get a reply, the channel went dead. Damn it. The Irkens were jamming again.

"Hey, look!" Cried Beethoven, pointing up at the northern sky. A dozen or more Spittle Runners were inbound, flying in an arrowhead formation. The lead Runner, along with another, pulled ahead, swooped down, and began unloading rockets on the remaining cars in the obstacle, blasting a clear lane through the burning wall. Even as the Runners peeled off, one on either side, the first few DMOVs broke through.

The Weapons Sergeant on Dib's team, who was now posted atop a machine shop two buildings down, ran forward from the opposite side of the building, threw himself into a crouched position, and cut loose with the team's last Javelin missile. With a powerful _whoosh, _the 163mm HEAT round streaked away, came down, homing down on the lead DMOV, then struck perfectly, blasting apart the vehicle and sending large pieces slamming into the DMOV behind it, killing the vehicle Commander who'd been standing in his hatch.

Dib rose, jogged to the edge of the roof, and gave the signal to fall back. The signal was passed on to the other four men as Dib and Beethoven got moving. Once on the ground, they piled into their pickup truck, with Dib at the wheel, Beethoven riding shotgun.

"Are we headed back to a third fallback position?" Asked the medic.

"I'm not sure yet."

"We're low on ammo. We can't stay."

"Black Bear figured the Tenth would be here by now. We'll have to wait right here till those choppers fly by, then I'll get us to the south side of town, find some cover there. And after that, well-"

"This is it. We won't make it out of here. Not with them dropping troops on the ground and rolling in their armor."

Dib didn't respond.

Part of him was getting awfully depressed, whispering like the Reaper in his ear, _It's about time you died. You're long overdue._

He shoved his head out the window, lifted his binoculars, and watched as the Spittle Runners and Voot Cruisers streaked overhead, descending hard and fast.

Before darkness fully settled, High Level would belong to the Irkens.

(End chapter)


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter Thirty Three

Back inside Calgary tower, Sergeant Dax Rarik sent two of his men forward, told them to use their rifle's attached grenade launchers. He'd been ordered to cause minimal damage to the tower. Well, tell that to the Irkens up there, four on the top landing now, two high ranking Invaders, a Special Operations Commando and a soldier from which the ranks Rarik had never seen fielded before, a Zealot, wearing his gold battle armor, all of which were dishing out a steady stream of plasma fire punctuated with the occasional smoke and plasma grenades. The Irkens had already destroyed several landings that the team strung ropes across.

Another explosion rocked the stairwell, and suddenly three of Rarik's men emerged from the ball of blue, super heated plasma, they tumbled by, having been blown off the stairs. Two men were killed by the explosion, smoke trailing their fall as their armor burned, but the third had keyed his mic as he fell, screaming at the top of his lungs as plasma chewed through his armor and plummeting to his death.

"Sergeant, we can't go on," Cried one of his grenadiers.

Rarik, his face covered in sweat now, the MOPP gear practically suffocating him as it protected him, could stand no more. "Sparta team!" He barked loudly. "Follow me! We're going in!"

With the civilian geeks huddling behind their shields to the rear, Rarik pushed past the other and pounded up the stairs, firing steadily until he neared the final landing. All four, diverse category and ranked Irkens were positioned there; reacting instinctively, Rarik pumped off a grenade from his rifle's launcher.

Three, two..

He hit the deck as the burst rumbled hard through the concrete and steel above. Before the smoke cleared, he was back on his feet, thundering up to find the two Invaders blown apart, the Zealot's armor was scorched and chewed to hell, he was missing a leg, the Commando was lying on his back, half his torso gone. He groaned and reached out to Rarik for help.

Rarik answered his request with a bullet.

"Sparta team, clear up here, come on up." He checked the door leading into the observation deck and souvenir shop: locked, of course. He called up his engineer to blow the door. As the charges were being set, he returned to the civilians, told the guy known as Poin-dexter One that they would need to clear the observation deck first before he could allow them to enter. The guy understood but urged Rarik to hurry.

After issuing another SITREP to Captain Harris, Rarik checked in with the engineer: good to go.

"Fire in the hole!" Warned Rarik.

With an appreciable bang, the C-4 blew the door from its hinges, and as they gray smoke rose, Rarik and his men charged onto the deck, a huge, circular shaped room with panoramic windows offering a wide view of the city light. The souvenir shop was in the middle, obscuring some view.

Two Commando's burst from the shop, firing at Rarik and his men as they fanned out. Rarik returned fire as he dropped to his gut and propped himself on his elbows. One of his men shrieked in agony. Then another. Yet there was no more gunfire or plasma discharge.

Rarik reached down to the belt at his waist, withdrew his Blackhawk Gladius, activated the thumb switch. The brilliant light pushed back into the shadows to find on of the Spec Ops Commandos with a nine inch, black steel blade pertruding from his right wrist gauntlet.

He was slipping up behind one of Rarik's men.

Rarik screamed out-

But the blade came down into the back of the man's neck like a hot knife through butter. His man shrieked and fell, either dead or incapacitated. Rarik bolted to his feet, one hand detaching his own mask as he charged along the windows, firing and dropping the guy as he let a battle cry roar from his mouth. Then he whirled around at the sound of more gunfire on the other side of the deck.

He made a mad dash along the windows, spotted two more Commandos being Commanded by an Invader firing ahead of his men. Dropping once more onto his belly, he used the laser designator in his helmet to target the exposed necks of each Irken and delivered one, two, three shots. Blood and brain matter flew, and two Irkens collapsed, but he'd missed the third. The Invader turned back.

Just as Rarik was about to fire back, a metallic clang caught his ears.

He glanced to his right.

A plasma grenade hit the floor and rolled toward him.

Just beyond it, the second team was moving in, along with the civilians, who were running toward him.

"Get back!" He dropped his rifle and scrambled to his feet. "Grenade!"

He threw himself on top of it.

Just as it went off.

* * *

Sergeant Dib Membrane and his men raced in the truck down 97th Street, unaware that one of the Voot Cruisers had wheeled around until a pair of rockets tore into the asphalt behind them and exploded. The two Marines seated in the back leaped over the side, just as a wall of flames filled the pickup truck's rear window. Then, as the truck reached the next corner, Dib hung a sharp left turn-

A large, violet plasma charge hit, blasting them up onto two wheels.

Beethoven shouted something but Dib's ears were still ringing from the explosion. They hung there for a million year second until the truck slammed hard onto the passenger's side, safety glass shattering. They slid up onto the sidewalk, careened off a building, then sideswiped a light pole before coming to a screeching halt, engine still running, glass still tumbling, flames crackling somewhere outside.

As smoke began to fill the cabin, Dib coughed and unbuckled. He called out to Beethoven, whose head was bleeding but who was conscious. The two Marines in the back of the crew cabin were already hauling themselves outside, where they took near instant plasma fire from the Cruiser as it swooped down again.

Dib figured that on the next pass the pilot would launch rockets or plasma charges again. He and Beethoven had only seconds to get out of there. Holding his breath, he forced open the door and climbed out onto the crew cabin door. He gave Beethoven a hand, hoisting the medic up and out. They jumped down on the sidewalk-

Just as the Cruiser finished its turn and began to descend directly toward them.

Dib glanced over at Beethoven.

They both knew there was no time to run. The Cruiser would launch ordnance, and their lives would be over in a heartbeat. Yet in that second, in that shared look, they knew what they had to do. If they were going to die, it wouldn't be running; it would be defying the enemy to the very last breath.

So, without a word, they got into crouched positions, as did the rest of his team- if only to rage against the enemy. Everything seemed to go into slow motion as they fired wildly at the large canopy window as the Voot swooped in for the kill. And his clip was about to empty, Dib closed his eyes, thought of Arkady back in the alley.

_Get ready to buy me a beer, my friend. I'm coming home._

* * *

Commander John Andreas drew a long breath as tension mounted on the _Olympia_'s bridge.

The R-82 Bulva racing toward them was a solid rocket ballistic missile that generated a gas cavity, which gave it great speed put precluded a guidance system. Its eight mile short range classified it as a last ditch weapon and earned it the title of revenge weapon. The missile was most fired as a "snap shot" back down the bearing of an incoming enemy's missile.

At the moment, Andreas assumed that the Commander who had ordered its launch was surprised to discover him as he was to discover him as he was to discover the Bulva.

"Radar, go active, single pulse on bearing three two zero!" He ordered.

"Missile has rapid right bearing drift, headed across our bow," Reported the radar operator.

"Passing five hundred meters, Captain," Said the Chief of the Watch, making direct eye contact with Andreas.

The radar operator chimed again. "Radar contact, bearing three two four, range thirty five hundred yards, designate Sierra One, sir."

"Emergency blow main stabilizer-" Cried the Officer of the Deck.

"Belay that!" Barked Andreas. "The bow's coming up. The planesman has control. Ahead two thirds. Keep air moving across the control surfaces, make your altitude two hundred meters."

"All ahead two thirds, make my altitude two hundred meters, aye, sir," Repeated the OOD. "What about that missile, sir?"

"He launched an out of range snap shot when he heard our emergency beacon. We were dropping like a rock with virtually no forward motion. A two hundred knot Bulva can't be guided. If he cranked in any lead angle, he aimed where we weren't."

"Let's hope his aim continues to be that poor, sir."

"I think it will." Andreas regarded the radar operator. "Talk to me. Anything from Sierra One?"

"Nothing on broadband or narrowband, sir," Replied the operator.

"Engineering, get somebody on the hydraulic glitch. I want a healthy ship when we attack this guy." Andreas silently scanned the bridge, gauging the tension level once more as the hall groaned under the sudden movement of trajectory.

"All right, consider this a moment to regroup- and remember, if God didn't want us in the air for as long as we have been _she _wouldn't have given us titanium-A and HY-100 steel plating."

He got one or two chuckles and observed some easing of posture among the men manning the various stations. After a few more breaths he added, "Now gentlemen, we might've found that missing Bludgeon class, the _Ish'brod_, and I have every intention of taking her out." Andreas checked his display. "Bring pods one and two up, power up both units, and open muzzle doors."

The _Olympia_ could operate at any height with the two over sized archer pods carrying the ATA Harpoon missiles powered up and muzzle doors open.

"Come left to three two zero," He ordered. "We'll close on datum and see what radar can see if he's not visible in this cloud layer."

He had ordered them to get the target's last known location. Now _they _were on the hunt.

* * *

Dib snapped open his eyes at the sound of a terrific boom, followed by a dozen other pops, cracks and groaning sounds, all rising above a tremendous rush of air that knocked him flat on his back. As the sky panned overhead and a wave of dizziness rushed over him like a twelve foot breaker, he rolled onto his side, blinked hard, and looked up again. The Voot cruiser had burst apart and smoke rising high.

Beyond it, engines booming, soared an A-10 Thunderbolt II, better known as a Warthog or just Hog, a twin engine jet designed to provide close air support for ground troops. A second A-10 followed closely on the first one's wing, and then, off to Dib's left, he spotted a half dozen Apache attack helicopters, along with several Chinooks, MV-22 Ospreys, and the redesigned RAH-66 Comanche recon/attack helicopters.

Beethoven started hollering and cursing, unable to contain him emotions. "Ladies and gentlemen! The Tenth Mountain Division has arrived!"

A flicker of a movement from the buildings on his left caught Dib's eye. Down at the next intersection, a squad of Imperial Troopers had just rounded the corner and crouched to fire.

"Troops right there!" Cried Dib.

Discharge rang out; blood sprayed over the pavement as Beethoven fell, multiple wounds in his face and neck.

He died quickly.

Dib returned fire, darting behind the burning pickup truck; the bolts tracked him, splashing hard into rubber and steel. "Black Bear, this is Bali, over!"

He swore. Comm was still jammed. He slipped around the back of the truck, where he spotted three of his men hold up in another doorway. He waved them on, and they charged down the street away from the fiery wreck, the Irkens moving up behind them.

* * *

Rarik flickered open his eyes.

They were talking about him.

He recognized their voices: medics from his platoon.

He was lying on his back, staring up at the observation deck's ceiling. Flashlights panned everywhere. There was no more gunfire, no more plasma discharge, only the sounds of his men.

"He won't make it, will he," said a bearded, unhelmeted civilian, leaning over Rarik.

"Shhh," Ordered one of the medics. "He can still hear you. And there's always a chance. But he's not in pain. We took care of that."

Rarik's gaze came in and out of focus.

"Sergeant, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand."

The guy took Rarik's hand, and he squeezed.

"Listen to me. We wouldn't have made it in here if it weren't for you. Right now my people are trying to disarm a ten kiloton suitcase nuke. If they fail, we're all going to die anyway. But I wanted you to know that what you did..." His voice cracked. "I just wanted you to know. Thank you."

Rarik managed to nod ever so slightly. He squeezed the man's hand again, just as Captain Harris knelt down beside him. "Sergeant, that chaplain's on his way. Hang in there for me. You got no permission to die."

Rarik wasn't one to disobey and order, but the intense cold creeping into his chest would not cease.

The mission had been accomplished.

His work here was finished.

He took the Captain's hand and managed to whisper, "C-cold."

Suddenly, all the lights snapped on in the room, causing him to open his eyes.

Was he laving his body now? Or was he beginning to hallucinate?

"They've restored power to the cell network as well," Someone shouted. "They might be trying to trigger the device that way now!"

"Get someone to shut the power down. And move it!"

Rarik wanted to sit up, see what was going on. He turned his head slightly, where the civilians were gathered around something on the floor, the nuke maybe, all working under intense, battery operated lights.

And then, quite suddenly, the world grew dark around the edges, Rarik felt a cold streak falling down his cheek as a tear fell from his eye, he took his last breath, and closed his eyes.

(End chapter)


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter Thirty Four

Colonel Jul and Green Vox were in the tiny town of Banff, just off the Trans Canada Highway as it traversed the Banff National Park, seventy eight miles west of Calgary. They had chosen the location to be upwind from nuclear fallout once the detonations were made.

They checked in to The Fairmont Banff Springs, a lavish getaway nestled in the Canadian Rockies. The Fairmont was styled after a Scottish baronial castle, with ornate spires and castle like walls. Jul's time there had made her feel very much like a Tallest. But that time had come to an end. Green Vox- who went by so many aliases that even Jul didn't know his real name- was downstairs, checking on their ride out to the heliport.

Their sources in Edmonton and Calgary had said that the USMC and EFEC had located both nuclear weapons and were attempting to dismantle them. And while she had wanted to wait the full forty eight hours to ensure as many Military casualties as possible, the USMC and EFEC had moved more swiftly than she'd anticipated- meaning that Red and Purple had tipped their hands to the Americans.

Jul had already tried triggering the nukes via her Iridium satellite phone, but she couldn't believe it: the entire network was down. Impossible! She had told her sources to pass on word to get the conventional cell phone network up and running.

Vox returned to the room. "They're waiting for us. Is it done?"

"The entire Iridium network is down. I have to try the cell."

"No power."

"They're taking care of that."

"And if they don't?"

"They already have," She said, studying the cell phone grasped in her ungloved hand. "My call to Calgary is going through now." Once she heard the familiar hum, she need only to dial two numbers: 5 9.

Confirmation that the weapon was armed to detonate in twenty seconds would come as three beeps.

The humming continued.

She hit the numbers again. And again.

She cursed in Irken tongue.

"I told you this would happen!" Vox cried as he threw his hands up.

"No!"

"Yes! They've already dismantled the nuke because you let your ego get in the way. Typical Irken. You didn't need to contact Red, Purple, or even Tak!"

"After all those years, I deserved that much," She said through her teeth.

"Well, now what? Do you really think your brother will come through for us?"

"He will."

"Are you ever going to tell me who he is? What the plan is now? We're in this together."

She cocked up a well kept antenna. "We all have secrets."

Vox grabbed her by the through, shoved her against the wall. "You stupid..."

He didn't finish.

Instead, he came in for a violent kiss, and she offered no resistance.

When he finally pulled back, his voice lowered to warning depths. "Tell me what's happening."

"If only you knew..."

"Tell me, otherwise-"

"What?" She glared at him. "We just made love. Now you're threatening me?"

"You have no idea how much money is at stake."

She snorted. "Oh, yes I do. This will happen- one way or the other."

"We're not leaving until you talk."

"All right. You want to know it all, huh? It doesn't matter anymore. Listen closely. My brother is Commander of the _Ish'brod_. He _will _launch a salvo of R-82 missiles. They'll fly low, and the American missile shield can't stop them. It'll destroy a series of decoys while the live missiles reach their targets in Alberta."

"This has never been tried before."

"Until now."

"How did you manage this?"

"Very carefully."

"And you're so very sure."

"I am."

"And you don't care about how many innocent lives will be lost if you're right?"

She remembered what Zim had told her on the _Fan'vlood_, another Project 995 Bludgeon class ship, when she had asked the same thing, _"No one is innocent!"_ he snapped every time when someone stated humans, or any other species for that matter, was innocent.

She smiled darkly. "I am Sneg. What did you expect?" She shoved him away, drew a silenced pistol and grimaced at the ugly human designed weapon.

"Jul, what are you doing?"

"Did you _really _think I was working with you?"

His mouth fell open. "You can't be serious."

She grinned and extended her arm.

Vox's face filled with hatred. "Go ahead, kill me. Green Vox will return. He always does."

She shot him between the eyes. He dropped hard to the floor.

"Yes," She said, staring down at his body. "You always come back- and always a human. Always a male. What a pity."

* * *

After ducking down the next side street, Staff Sergeant Dib Membrane sent two of his Marines across the street, where they kept low in a doorway, while the team's Senior Communications Sergeant paired up with him. They set up behind two parked cars, both so beat up that it was clear why their owners had abandoned them, and waited for the pursuing imperial troopers to round the corner.

Five seconds. Ten. Twenty. They didn't come.

Dib immediately assumed they had doubled back in an attempt to catch them from behind. Now he had two choices, neither good: he could avoid the ambush and head back to the truck- but the air support no doubt had moved on. Or they could rush ahead, try to catch the enemy by surprise, ambush the ambushers.

The decision was obvious.

He ordered the group to move out, to keep moving forward. They kept tight to the walls, they were twenty yards from the corner when the Irkens burst into view, just as he'd expected. All six of them. Dib jammed down his trigger, spraying the troopers, as did his men. The Irkens fell back around the corner, but one spun around and cut loose a last burst.

Dib was about to order his men to drive on, but a second group of troopers, four in all, appeared behind them and opened up, driving Dib and his partner into the next doorway. Across the street, one of Dib's Marine's had taken a round in his thigh. He lay there clutching the wound, a dark stain growing on the sidewalk.

They were now cut off and spread out, with Imperial Troopers at both ends of the street.

Dib had been taught that it was moments like this that separated the good team Sergeant's from the great ones. Despite all the stress and heightened senses, you needed to clear your head, analyze the situation, and use cunning, speed, and maneuverability to your advantage.

Calling for help was a good idea, too.

He switched to the team's channel. Maybe Samson would allow him to get through. "Black Bear, this is Bali, over."

"Go ahead, Bali."

He sighed over the small miracle. "Check the Blue Force Tracker. I'm pinned down here with one wounded, over."

"Roger that. Cross-Com's back up now. Tenth got people on the ground. I'll send a squad or two your way, over."

"That would be nice," Dib answered matter of factly. "Misery loves company. Bali, out." He returned to his cammo guy. "We can't stay here."

"But they have us cut off."

"Which is why we can't stay here." He pointed over at his two men across the street. "Cover them. I saw a staircase on one building. I'm going to check it out."

"You're going alone?"

Dib bit back a curse. "Cover them. Do it."

As Dib jogged up the street, he realized his teammate wasn't questioning orders but genuinely concerned about his safety. Well, Dib was also genuinely concerned about his safety, and it puzzled him as to why he wasn't drawing any fire. Racing to the end of the building, which appeared to be some kind of factory of warehouse, he turned left, found the metal staircase leading up to some heavy machinery on the roof.

He slipped onto the stairs, controlled his breathing, and took it one step at a time. At the top, he spotted four Irken troopers that had been behind him, skulking along the edge, preparing to move along the rooftop to ambush his men below. One poorly placed step would give him away. He eased off the stairs and onto the ice covered roof, his boots barely finding any traction. He shifted over a tall aluminum venting system, crouched down, and rasied his rifle, spotted a very old looking Irken, was that an artificial leg?

He heard footfalls rumbling on the staircase and the sounds of battle in the distance grew louder as it intensified.

* * *

"Captain, I'm picking up flow noise from Sierra One on narrowband, bearing three three nine," Said the _Olympia_'s sonar operator.

Andreas' breath grew shallow with excitement. "Where's the thermal layer?"

"Five hundred meters, sir."

"We couldn't pick up his flow noises if he wasn't below the layer with us."

"Concur, Captain."

Andreas called out to the Officer of the Deck. "Come right to three three nine, slow to one third, make your altitude six hundred meters."

He waited until the OOD repeated and executed his order, then switched his attention back to radar. "What's your best guess on that flow noise source?"

"I think it's flow induced resonance, Captain. That snap shot might've unlatched a stowage bin outside on his hull. It sounds like blowing into an empty Coke bottle. He has to hear it himself. I'm surprised he hasn't slowed down to make it go away."

Andreas squinted and thought aloud: "He knows we're still alive, but he's not sure of our status or where we are, so he's risking some noise to put distance between himself and our contact point. Maybe behind those mountains. Then he'll slow to a crawl and acoustically and visually vanish."

"I agree, Captain."

"Stay on him, Radar. That's two mistakes he's made."

"Two, sir?"

"Yeah, taking a cheap panic shot at us during our emergency was his first. On the other hand, we'd most likely have missed each other if we hadn't had that jam."

Andreas had to assume that the _Ish'brod _would behave like the 995 it was and try to skulk away and hide-

Because a USRAN nuclear attack Battle Cruiser was an Irken 995 crew's worst nightmare.

* * *

Major Katrina Parsons' monitor showed streaming video from the High Level Bridge in Edmonton, just as the Irken mechanized forces was making their way over it- And just as the Tomahawks launched from the _Olympia _made impact.

As explosions flashed in a string of lights festooning the bridge's lines, Parsons nodded. A perfect strike. Sure, the nuke there had already been deactivated, but the Euros had reported that the Irken ground force moving in was much larger than the initial intel had indicated, and cutting off their main avenue of approach would allow the Euros to better engage and delay them, until more follow on forces arrived, or until the Irkens decided to pull out.

The bridge broke apart in three distinct pieces and dropped to the river, creating tremendous waves and sending fountains high into the night sky. And along with the bridge came the Irken vehicles, tumbling end over end, crashing into the pieces of bridge before they sank or simply splashing hard into the water. She felt a horrible sensation rip up her spine as she imagined what those Irken vehicle operators and their crew must be like in the water, burning and shrieking violently.

At least a dozen more vehicles had been moving so swiftly that they couldn't stop, and like elephants herded to a cliff, they plunged over the side. She took a long pull on her coffee cup, leaned back in her chair, and continued to watch as, in another set of windows, images from Calgary Tower, where wounded or killed infantrymen were being evaced away.

She'd spoken to on of the Company Commanders there, a man named Harris, who'd said one of his rifle squad leaders had saved the entire NEST team by throwing himself on a plasma grenade. Stories of men doing this in order to save their brothers in arms were common during times of war.

But that kind of bravery was not.

The soldier's name was Sergeant Dax Rarik, and Parsons would make sure he received the full recognition he deserved.

A call flashed on her screen. "Yes, General Kenedy. What can I do for you?"

(End chapter)


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter Thirty Five

"Captain, we've got a passive range solution of twenty six thousand yards and a computed course and speed of three two zero, one hundred knots, for the target," Reported the _Olympia_'s attack coordinator.

"Radar's lost contact with Sierra One, Captain," Said the operator. "He's definitely slowed down."

Commander John Andreas nodded. "Weps, set the unit in tube one up top on low speed, passive search, transit altitude fifteen hundred meters. Set the unit in tube four on low speed, passive search, transit altitude one thousand meters."

While the Air Navy called them units, Andreas still thought of the HMR-225s as ballistic missiles and would refer to them as such when in the company of nonmilitary friends and family. However, it hardly mattered what they were called when one was bearing down on you.

The Irkens would soon testify to that.

Andreas continued: "Gentlemen, I want to sit back here in his baffles and straddle him with our 225s. Let both units achieve ordered altitude during their run to enable. With units one and four walking point, we'll follow behind, right down to fourteen thousand yards if he doesn't see us. Now here's the plan..." Andreas paused, solidifying the tactical picture in his mind before voicing it. "I'm going to send unit four onto his port quarter, maybe just abaft his beam, turn it toward him, then switch it to high speed, active mode. If he thinks he's under attack from the west, he'll turn east to evade and concentrate his snap shots and counter measures toward the west- not at us. Meanwhile, unit one will be on his starboard side, waiting. He'll never know what hit him."

The weapons officer flashed a knowing grin. "Reminds me of growing up on the sheep ranch. We had two smart border collies. One would outflank the flock, bark, and charge, then the flock back toward his buddy."

"Exactly," Said Andreas. "Now you've got control, Weps. We American cowboys and sheepherders will how these Irkens how it's done."

"Yes, sir!"

* * *

Staff Sergeant Dib wasn't sure who or what was coming up the stairs behind him, but he needed to make his move. He charged across the roof, coming up to the rearmost Imperial Trooper making his way along the edge. Dib covered the troopers mouth with one hand while the Caracara knife in his other hand tore through the Irken's neck and into his spinal cord. The trooper died as quickly as that one had back in Seattle.

As he went down, Dib folded up his knife, slung around his rifle, and jogged off. The other three still hadn't noticed him. It was pitch black up there on the roof, no power in the entire town now, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. His nose was runny and frozen, his lips growing more chapped.

He rushed up to the next guy, the drumming of Irken engines, jet engines and helicopter rotors all over the sky now, along with sporadic gunfire and near and far explosions. The din fully concealed his thumping boots. Dib was about to dispatch the next guy with his blade when the trooper turned around, an older looking Irken, his eyes twitched as he laid eyes on him, artificial limb and baring the rank of Major.

All Dib could do was throw himself forward, knocking the Irken to the rooftop. They slid across the ice, rolled, still clutching each other, then Dib forced the man back while driving the knife forward. The Irken caught his wrist with both hands and raged against the knife as he pushed his arm back. The last two Irkens came charging back, rifles coming to bear.

The Major ceased the opportunity of Dib's flinching to twist his wrist, throw the knife and start bolting for cover as he barked orders in Irken to kill him. The younger Irkens continued firing, maybe thirty feet away, they grew more distinct, two unmasked Irken males in their late eighties or early nineties loaded down with gear but shifting as agilely as barechested jungle fighters. These two were seasoned Special Operations Commandos.

Dib grabbed the dead Irken he had sliced earlier on beneath him and rolled left as he dropped to the ground, using the trooper as a shield-

As the others opened fire, riddling their squad mate with plasma bolts, some splashing off his helmet and armor, others burrowing into his legs and neck. Dib flinched hard, knowing it would take only one lucky bolt to finish him. He lay there a moment, unmoving, playing dead, as they ceased fire and came closer.

While Dib couldn't see them, he reached out with every other sense, and just as those boots sounded close enough, he threw off the body and came up with his rifle. They were ten feet away, firing as he did, the bolts striking his chest hard, the armor protecting him, the impacts were breath robbing.

One of the Irkens fell to the roof, clutching his wounds and firing one handed blindly, striking his partner in the neck three times. Unsure if he'd been hit in the arms or legs, Dib pushed himself up, checked himself, then turned toward the other side of the roof, where a half dozen silhouettes appeared: More troopers. Running toward him- While some bulky craft swooped in behind them, its powerful searchlight bathing the Irkens in its harsh glow.

Dib squinted while beginning to move back. Was that an enemy craft or not?

He got a better look and shouted, "Yeah!"

Trailing the troopers was, in fact, a USMC A/C-604 Dragon, its door gunners delivering the 7.62mm early bird special to the Irkens below at 1000 rounds per minute. Two troopers were cut down hard and fast. A third threw himself behind a rectangular shaped duct but was torn to ribbons.

Dib broke to the left, out of those gunners' line of fire, reaching the other side of the roof, when he was nearly knocked off his feet by an Irken trooper coming around another aluminum vent. He shoved the older Irken, the Major with the artificial limb, backwards in order to bring his rifle to bear, but the wide eyed trooper reacted as quickly- grabbing him by the collar and swinging him around.

Dib tried to wrench off the troopers hands, but the veteran had a death grip, which was fitting, since their forward momentum carried them both off the roof-

And into the air.

* * *

"Captain, Sonar. Regained contact with Sierra One, bearing three four one, narrowband tonals, twin ship turbine generators. WLY-1 matches to a Bludgeon class. You were right, sir. It is without a doubt the _Ish'brod_. Range, twenty five thousand yards, computed from prior _Ish'brod_ SSTG detection tables."

"Excellent. We're sure who he is, and now we got him," Cried Andreas, slamming a fist into his palm. "Officer of the Deck, come right to three four one, make your altitude eighteen hundred meters, speed one fifty knots. Make tubes one and four ready in all respects. And when ready, match generated bearings and fire!"

"Unit in tube one fired electricity. Unit in tube four fired electricity," Reported the Weapons Officer.

For the next two minutes there was utter silence in the control room, then the attack coordinator abruptly jarred Andreas from his introspection: "Units one and four enabled and conducting spiral searches."

"Turn unit four twenty degrees left. Then, once clear of the baffles, turn it right- directly at the target- changing speed to high and switching to active search mode," Ordered Andreas.

"Aye-aye, sir!" cried the Weapons Officer.

* * *

Dib and the Irken Major plunged twenty feet to the ice covered pavement below. During the fall, Dib had been able to roll the Irken slightly, so that he was on the bottom. It was interesting how Dib's mind emptied in the two seconds it took to drop. He was at complete peace, because the part of him that wanted to die would soon be satisfied. The guilt of living would be gone. But in the last quarter of a second, as the ground came up hard and fast, the other part took over, the Marine trained to live at all costs.

"Fuck!" He gasped as they made impact, which was far less severe with one hundred and eighty pounds of Irken cushion beneath him. The Irken grunted hard as he slammed the ground, head snapping back, helmet making a loud clang as he seemed to have died from the fall.

_That wasn't so bad. I'm alive._

But then Dib felt a tremendous pain rushing up his legs, and now he couldn't move them. He'd probably fractured both. He rolled over, groaned, looked to his right... Just as the Major with the mechanical limb started to push up off the ground. Now standing on his one organic foot and the other mechanical one, he drew his P-44 and shone the attached light in his eyes. "Good bye, human."

* * *

The _Ish'brod_'s reaction was immediate and textbook. The ship turned right, went to flank speed, and launched counter measures as well as a salvo of blind fired rockets and high powered lasers.

"Second detect on unit one," Called out the Weapons Officer. "Unit one is homing!"

Andreas inhaled deeply. There'd be no more signals from unit one's wire. At "homing," the HMR-225 increased speed to two hundred knots, armed itself, and activated its proximity detector. The missile's high explosive warhead would detonate once it sensed the high concentration of the Earth's magnetic field caused bu the close proximity of the titanium mass of the _Ish'brod_'s hull.

Andreas literally held his breath.

* * *

Captain Second Rank Kolo Mik'hini closed his eyes and tensed every muscle in his body. He let his ID PAK drop to the floor with a metallic clang. He and Jul were going to exact their revenge on the Irken control brains and government for Irti's death. It was going to be simple. Magnificent. Memorable. And there were dozens of other governments across the universe who'd paid dearly to help them along in their quest- because many other stood to benefit from their plan. But he had failed them. Failed his siblings.

Irti was the brother with a squeedly spooch of gold who'd sacrificed his life to do a good job for his employer.

Jul was the sister with a brilliant mind.

But what was he now, except a failure?

His ship was in a dive, descending through twelve hundred meters, to futilely to escape. His men were overwhelmed by what their instruments told them.

"The missile is locked on!" Cried the XO.

Kolo raised his chin and slowly opened his eyes. "I know."

"Then we die with honor for the Empire!" The XO shouted.

Kolo shook his head slowly, removed the picture of his brother from his pocket, fell to his knees and whispered through tears, "I'm sorry."

* * *

"Detonation, detonation!" Shouted the radar operator.

Their missile had been rising up from thirteen hundred meters, and Andreas imagined it striking the _Ish'brod_'s keel with a massive explosion, the ship breaking apart, sections tumbling away toward the ground. The shutters opened on the main view window, and just as he had plotted in his head, the ship was in eight different pieces, erupting form the massive pink orb that engulfed everything else as the main engine exploded.

Andreas sighed, took in a long breath.

"I've got popping and secondary detonations from Sierra One, sir," Reported the communications officer.

"It's a kill, Captain. We got the kill," Announced the comms officer, switching from headset to speaker for all to hear.

* * *

"Please, shoot me," Dib told the Major in Irken.

That Dib spoke the alien's language surprised him. He drew his head back, but then grinned. "I will help you to die, human soldier."

"Thank you. You see, I'm tired of killing you guys. You are the worst soldiers I have ever seen." Dib frowned deeply.

The Major knelt down beside Dib, his weapon trained on his forehead as his arm holding the weapon rested on his knee. "Are you Special Forces? I don't think so. You fight like little smeets." The Major laughed aloud, and said still laughing slightly, "Even a smeet stands a better chance than you."

"Major!" Hollered one of the Imperial Troopers.

The A/C-604 had banked hard and was descending for another pass. But the trooper was pointing at the two rifle squads from the Tenth Mountain Division fanning out across the street and already engaging the half dozen Irkens standing above Dib. And it was in that second of distraction that Dib drew the LC pistol from his hip. and just as the Major turned back to finish him, Dib lifted his arm and fired a 4.6mm projectile into the Irken's chest.

_Crap!_

Dib was aiming for his head, he tried pulling the trigger again.

_Click._

This was it, the Major recoiled with a growl and aimed his weapon. A shot rang out, piercing the Majors helmet, as the trooper tumbled back, a glorious cacophony of gunfire filled the street, the Irkens scattering like roaches. After a minute of withering fire, Dib forced his head up at the approach of someone aiming his rifle at the dead Major.

"Hey, man, nice shot," Said Dib to the rifleman, a Corporal, now at Dib's side.

"What's your name?"

"I'm Staff Sergeant Dib Membrane, USMC." He tried to move; the pain was excruciating, bringing tears to his eyes.

"Easy, Sergeant. We'll get you out of here."

"I know you will."

As the Corporal radioed back for help, Dib tried to take his mind off the pain. He leaned back, rested his head on the pavement, and gasped. He'd never known there were so many stars. It was, indeed, a heavenly view, and it reminded him of that terrible night before the rains had set in.

_"Are you worth it?"_

Those words never stopped echoing in his mind, and now, as he considered them once more, he wondered if it wasn't about placing value on the Irkens or the terrorists.

Maybe it was about valuing the mission.

_Is what we do worth it? Worth our lives?_

His hands tightened into fists.

Of course it was worth it- worth every drop of blood, sweat, and tears. They had been soldiers to the marrow and had died being true to who they were.

It _was _worth it.

(End chapter)


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter Thirty Six

Commander John Andreas brought his ship to reception distance. They were calling in their After Action Report to COMPACFLT. He stood outside on the deck with the XO, the Weapons Officer, and the Communications Officer. It was a star filled night, brutally cold, but Andreas was certain his men had never felt warmer.

After sharing the good news with the Admiral, Andreas lifted his voice. "Gentlemen, let's get get this down to one hundred meters and break out the medicinal brandy. As morale officer, I'm concerned about the crew's well being in these arctic climes. But before that, I want you to take in a deep breath and remember this day. I'm unsure if there ever was or ever will be a ship as busy as we've been in the past twenty four hours or so. If we carried it, we launched it. It came near us, we killed it. I'm proud of each and every one of you."

The men shouted their agreement, then Andreas noticed both photonic masts were up and the BRA-34 antenna was extended.

Worse- the running lights were on. His grin faded. Someone would catch holy hell for that.

"XO, we have a problem!"

* * *

The Pave Hawk had transported Sergeant Ray Harper, his Marines, Prizz, and Lieutenant Colonel Gaz Membrane back to Fort McMurray, where Harper received treatment for his wounds at a field hospital. He sat up in bed, warmed by the portable heater and sipping on a cup of strong coffee inside the rickety tent.

His wounds were minor, one bolt in each leg, and the leftover fragment needles launched with the super heated material had been removed. In a few weeks- and with a little physical therapy- he'd be back on his feet. Tristan, Szymanski, Fritz, and Gis had come by to see him, but strangely, Sergeant Reilly Scott had not, and the others had not seen him in the past hour.

But then, finally, the Sergeant came hopping down the long aisle of beds, holding a small plastic bag. "Here," He said with a bright smile. "Souvenirs. The needles that were in your legs. Took me a while, but I got them for you."

Sergeant Harper examined the two, inch long, nail thick, heat resistant, razor sharp titanium needles. "Uh, thanks. Maybe I'll make a necklace."

"Really?" Scott Grimaced.

"No, you idiot."

Scott thought a moment, then finally chuckled. "Sergeant, I just wanted to thank you for the opportunity to prove myself."

"You're thanking me for getting shot?"

Scott shrugged. "I guess so."

Harper widened his eyes in mock seriousness. "Well, I hope I can return the favor."

"That's okay."

Just then Gaz, who'd changed into a spare Marine Corps uniform with heavy jacket, approached the bed. "How're you doing?"

Harper smiled. "Better, thanks."

"How are _you _doing?" Asked Scott.

She shivered. "Finally thawed out."

Harper gave Scott a look: _Go!_

But the guy didn't get it.

"Did you see the Irken when we left him?" Scott asked her. "That guy cracked me up. He was all smiles. Never seen a POW so happy."

Harper raised his voice. "Sergeant, you mind if I talk with the Colonel?"

"Oh, yeah, oh, okay. Be good, man. See you later." Off he went, with a little hip hop rhythm in his gait.

"He's a character," Said Gaz.

"He's like a new pair of dress shoes. Stiff and squeaky. But he's doing better than I thought he would."

"I just came to tell you that you should expect a phone call. And this one you don't want to miss."

"Oh, yeah?"

"American Eagle wants to thank you."

"No kidding?"

"Yep. I have no idea why he's made such a big deal of this, but when it comes to politicians, you never know what they're thinking." Her tone grew cynical. "Maybe we're symbols of the American spirit."

"Don't sell us too short. Maybe we are."

"That works well for your ego, huh?"

"And yours, too."

She proffered her hand. "Well, thank you. I mean it. I hope we can stay in touch."

He took her hand, shook firmly. "I hope so, too. Do fighter pilots ever date Marines?"

She grinned, turned away, then glanced back over her shoulder and said, "Only the cute ones."

* * *

Staff Sergeant Dib Membrane had been evaced back to Grand Prairie, and the nurses were applying the cast to his left leg when he got the call from Sergeant Dax Rarik's Vehicle Commander, Sergeant Carlton. Twenty minutes earlier Dib had tried to call Rarik, who wasn't answering his cell. Then Dib had put a call in to Carlton, whose number he also kept in case of emergencies.

In a somber tone, the Sergeant described how Rarik had saved the entire NEST team through his selfless act of courage. And Dib just lay there, listening to the Sergeant call his name over and over- because he just couldn't respond to the news he was told for a few seconds. "Yeah, I'm here. Thanks, Tim. I'll call you tomorrow."

_"Dib, I'm giving this to you for two reasons: first, if one of us is going to make it, it's going to be you."_

Dib reached into his pocket and withdrew Dax's balisong. He clutched the knife in his fist and closed his eyes.

_You knew it all along, didn't you, Dax. And you knew it was worth it. You didn't have any doubts. Not a one._

* * *

"We've still heard nothing from Irk or any other forward operating base's," Said General Kenedy.

President Becerra leaned back in his chair aboard Air Force One and nodded. "I didn't think we would."

"They are, however, beginning to withdraw their forces from Alberta, all around the globe, and rallying on one position, in Russia, and heading back for Mars to withdraw to Irk. For the most part."

"Good."

"Yes, sir, but it'll still take months to flush out all the Special Operations units. And who knows how many spies could have infiltrated the area."

"Understood. We'll work with Emerson to address that issue and the reconstruction issues. I suspect he'll be quite upset over the highway and the bridge."

He winced. "Oh, yes, sir. I'll update you again in one hour."

"Thank you, General. Now I need to call a very skilled Marine Corps Sergeant who got our pilot out."

"He'll appreciate that, sir."

* * *

Recently promoted Chieftain Major General of the Irken Empire Tak massaged her large violet eyes as she sat in the tower of which Purple and Red resigned in.

"It's confirmed," Said Red, his cheeks growing fiery red as he turned away from his computer screen. "The _Ish'brod _has been destroyed."

Tak shook her head. "She had a deal with her brother, and that fool got himself killed."

"She needs to join him in death. I don't care how many agents you employ. I want her found. And if they can't capture her, they should kill her. Do you understand, Chieftain Major General?"

"Completely. They'll return the body to me. I want to look into her dead eyes and be sure."

Purple glanced toward a pair of screen, began tapping away on his touch keyboard. "Now, there are other ways to gain control of those reserves and that planet. Has Knott called you back?"

"Just two hours ago."

Commander First Rank Invader Knott, AKA William Bullard, was an Irken mole and a member of the Canadian Parliament.

"How much monies and time will it take?"

"He's not sure yet, but Prime Minister Emerson's handling of our invasion has been very unpopular. I'm confident that Mr. Bullard will one day... And one day soon, become the next Prime Minister of Canada. But as we discussed, this is the much slower, perhaps even more expensive route."

Red nodded slowly. "Well, General, we'll leave you to your interrogations."

Tak nodded and dragged herself from the chair. The conversation could have been handled via video phone, but Red and Purple wanted to punish Tak for the Alberta debacle and force her down to command posts. Moreover, they had ordered every employee of the IMID be tested for loyalty- including Tak herself. It was an act of sheer paranoia and an insult, but Tak had her orders- and she had The Empress to thank for everything. Her fingers itched to get around her throat.

At one hundred and ninety six, there weren't many things left in this universe that truly moved Chieftain Major General Tak.

War was one of them.

And revenge was another.

* * *

The early morning flight to Cuba was thankfully brief- because during the entire time Major Katrina Parsons wrung her hands and couldn't stop termbling. Her pulse raced as she was escorted through security, and by the time she reached the interrogation room, she was sweating profusely and had to excuse herself to the bathroom.

She splashed cold water over her face, glanced up in the mirror. "Be strong."

A minute later, she was escorted inside the interrogation room, where discharged Chieftain Major General Zim was waiting for her, his hands and legs shackled, head lowered.

She took a seat across from him, plopped a file she'd been carrying on the table.

His left antenna, the one not cut in half, twitched. "You smell very nice, Major."

"Look at me."

He slowly raised his head, eyes weary, face pale, almost white more than green, "Have you been crying, Major?" The General half laughing under his breath.

"No."

"Your makeup-"

"Forget my makeup. I'm going to get you out of here."

He hoisted both antenna, the color returning to his face. "Where are we going?"

"Away from here."

"I kind of like it."

"Especially the food, right?"

"All food on Earth is horrible." He grinned and glanced away. "So you've reconsidered my offer?"

"Shut up, General. Look at this."

She shoved the file toward him. He glanced down at it. "Interesting." He fake studied it from all angles, then looked up to her. "A pity I can't open it."

She'd forgotten he'd been handcuffed and rose, opened the file, then placed the photograph on the table. "This image comes from surveillance footage taken two days ago in Banff. That's in Alberta, Canada."

"N-no..."

"Yes. She's still alive, isn't she?"

The General was beginning to hyperventilate.

"Calm down. I'm getting you out of here so you can help us find her- before your friends at the IMID do. She double crossed them and the Green Brigade. She could be working for another organization more powerful than any we've encountered. General, are you listening?"

He was unresponsive, staring long and hard at the photograph, reaching out into her turquoise eyes with his own ruby ones. Eventually he looked up to her, those ruby eyes now brimming with tears. "Yes, I will help you."

Parsons called for the guards to open the door. Outside, she dialed a number on her satellite phone.

"Hello, Mr. President? He's in. And no, I didn't tell him everything. We'll take it one step at a time."

(End story)

* * *

**A/N: Well, that's all she wrote folks. I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I did writing it. Leave a review if you'd like, and hopefully I can start writing the sequel sometime soon.**


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